


sometimes good things fall apart

by blueink3



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Alexis is a good sister, Anal Sex, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Baseball, Brief allusion to rough sex, Brief discussions of consent, Broadway, Come to Jesus Moments, Deep Conversations, Drug Use, Hot Mess David, Idiots in Love, M/M, New York, Pining, Protective Patrick, Rimming, Stevie is a good friend, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, Vacation, they're both idiots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-21
Updated: 2019-07-25
Packaged: 2020-04-23 05:48:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 37,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19144792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueink3/pseuds/blueink3
Summary: What if David and Patrick didn’t survive the Rachel reveal? What if David fell back into destructive behavior and a pattern of bad relationships? What if, to get out of a bad relationship, he calls on the one person who actually truly cared about him?





	1. Prologue

Rain pelts the windows as Patrick dumps his bag by the door and toes off his wet shoes, running a hand through his hair and shaking off the excess water. He’d forgotten an umbrella and hadn’t bothered to check the weather report. Luckily his office isn’t far from his apartment, but unluckily, it’s not far enough away to justify a cab ride. He pads in his socks to the bedroom, unbuttoning his sodden shirt as he goes. He’s still dripping on the hardwood floors, but it’s nothing a towel won’t take care of.

Just another riveting Friday night in the big city.

Toronto is a far cry from Schitt’s Creek, but it’s both too close to and yet not far enough away from the things he’s running from. And yes, he is most definitely running. ( _Or being run out_ , his mind unhelpfully supplies.)

He peels his soaked pants from his body (at least his briefs were spared) and pulls on a pair of sweats and an old t-shirt. He’s craving comfort food, pizza sounds nice, but he feels bad making a poor delivery guy come out in the monsoon battering his windows. He glances out and can barely see Lake Ontario, the view that made him rent the place to begin with.

Schitt’s Creek had many things, but never a view like this.

With a heavy sigh, he pulls a beer from the fridge and collapses on the couch, tossing his phone on the coffee table and leaning his head back against the cushion. It had been a long day of crunching numbers and his head hurt. Everything seemed to hurt these days, his heart included, though it had tempered from a sharp roar to a dull ache. It was constant, though. No doubt about it. It was like someone had carved part of him out with a spoon and left it back in rural Canada for him to pine after like a character in those Jane Austen novels Rachel used to love.

_Rachel._

His heart clenches but not because of the reasons it used to after their many breakups. No, that little organ inside his chest is weighed down with guilt and hurt and anger and hopelessness, not because he walked away, but because she came back.

_“Rachel, what are you doing here?”_

_“What are_ **_you_ ** _doing here? I’ve been texting you for two days.”_  

With a frustrated grunt, he reaches for the remote and turns on the television, mindlessly flipping through the channels until he happens on a basketball game that looks semi-interesting. He hasn’t been keeping up with any sports since he moved to Toronto almost seven months ago, which, for him, is odd. Just one of the many ways Patrick Brewer is no longer the same person he once was. It’s as if his life has been separated into three distinct parts: Patrick after Rachel, Patrick after David, and Patrick after Rachel and David collided. He’s knows which part he’d pick to revisit if given the opportunity.

_“It’s your name on the building. I’ll go.”_

_“But I don’t know how to run this business.”_

_“You’re a smart man, David. You’ll figure it out. And if not, well, you have my number.”_

But David had never used it. In the beginning, Patrick spent more time than he’d like to admit googling Rose Apothecary, trying to see if there was even a mention in the local paper on how it was doing.

Stevie reached out from time to time, just a perfunctory _how are you?_ via text, maybe a snarky dig in jest, but he didn’t dare ask her. David had gotten her in the divorce, but she still checks in with Patrick because, as she says repeatedly, _David’s an idiot._

His phone vibrates across the glass coffee table and he glances over to see Stevie’s name on the screen. Speak of the devil. He supposes it is typical weather for ghosts from his past to come haunting him. Picking up his phone and thoroughly ignoring the way his heart starts to pound, he holds his thumb over the home button and waits a moment for it to unlock.

**_please don’t panic._ **

He frowns and quickly types back:

**A wonderful start to any conversation.**

The ellipses appear and disappear for a moment before her next text comes through:

**_have u heard from david?_ **

His stomach swoops.

**Stevie, what’s wrong?**

Her next reply is immediate:

**_just have u heard from him?_ **

He wants to say, _No, not since that day when he ripped my heart out,_ but even he knows that's a little dramatic for a Friday evening, so instead, he merely offers a succinct:

**No.**

**_okay. well, if u do, can u let me know?_ **

Fuck this. He hits Stevie’s name in his contacts and listens to the phone ring before the call connects.

“What’s going on?” he demands without even waiting for her greeting.

“It’s not a big deal.”

“Not a big deal? You don’t know where David is!” He doesn’t know at what point he stood, but he’s pacing the apartment from window to door.

“That’s not entirely true,” Stevie says after a pause. “He’s in New York.”

“What?!”

“He’s been going there every so often,” she says, her guilt at even revealing this information evident in her tone.

“He left the store?” The question sounds entirely too small leaving his mouth. Rose Apothecary was the one thing they had left that tied them together, even though he was no longer a part of it. He poured not just his blood, sweat, and business acumen, but also his heart and soul into making David’s dream a reality.

“He comes back every week,” Stevie murmurs. “Alexis and I run the store on the weekends when he’s gone.”

“But why is he in New York?” The business was everything to him. To them. And more importantly - “You wouldn’t be calling me if you weren’t worried about him. Why are you worried about him?”

“Technically, you called me.”

“Stevie - ” he clips, in no mood.

A harsh sigh gusts across the connection. “He - he met someone.”

And thank God there’s a chair in the corner, because Patrick’s legs give out and he collapses into it, dropping his head in his free hand and pinching the bridge of his nose. His throat is tight and his eyes sting, but his voice is at least even if hoarse when he asks, “He did?”

“Look,” Stevie begins, sounding like she hates every word coming out of her mouth, “just if you hear from him, please let me know?” Stevie doesn’t say ‘please.’

“And what makes you think he wants to talk to me?” he spits out more bitterly than he means to.

But Stevie doesn’t reply.

David asked him to leave and he did. He respected David’s wishes in a way that Rachel never respected his. But David has met someone. Someone that has Stevie worried.

He swallows hard and clears his throat. “Will you let me know if he’s in touch? I just - I need to know he’s safe.”

She’s silent.

“Stevie, please.”

They’re breaking their rule. When they speak, they don’t speak about David.

“Of course,” she whispers and it’s that, of all things, that makes a tear finally fall to his cheek.

“Is it bad?” He doesn’t want to know, but he just can’t help himself.

She breathes. “It’s not good."

He nods, even though he knows she can’t see him.

“Goodbye, Patrick.”

“Bye,” he murmurs, hanging up and pressing the phone to his forehead hard enough to leave a mark. He’d really like to throw it across the room, but that won’t help anything. And if, on the off chance, David does actually reach out, he wants to have a clear line of communication.

Worry and stress gnaw at him, chipping away at the defenses he’s tried so hard to build up over the last six months, two weeks, and three days. Slowly crumbling the wall he’s built around his heart and letting loose the pain of just _missing him_ that he’s bricked up behind it.

But beneath that worry and stress and pain is something he hasn’t let himself feel in far too long: hope.

And because of that, he does the one thing he swore to himself he wouldn’t do.

He texts David.

xxxxxx

The E is wearing off and David’s head is pounding in time with the bass blasting out of the club’s speakers, but the weed is going strong and a hot stranger just stuck his tongue down his throat so, all in all, he’s had worse evenings.

James fucked off to get him another drink, but that was like, an hour ago so who knows where the hell he’s gone to. His libido is rivaled only by his anger management issues, if the bruise David can barely feel blossoming on his face is anything to go by. James is handsy by nature and when he’s drunk, his hands don’t quite know the weight they carry.

David’s ass vibrates and he pulls out his phone, squinting through the strobing lights and the haze of rye manhattans to read the words on the screen.

**_Are you okay?_ **

He hates the way his heart kicks up to the speed of a horse in the Kentucky fucking Derby. He wants to fire back a _Why do you care?_ but then the semi-sober fraction of his brain helpfully reminds him that he was the one who forced Patrick to go.

 _“You stood in front of me and told me to_ **_trust_ ** _people.”_

He shakes away the memory but it only makes the room spin more.

**who told you**

**_Stevie._ **

David frowns. Patrick used to be more teasing than that - would type back _I’ll give you three guesses but you’ll only need one_ or some shit like that, but he supposes they’re beyond that now. They’re beyond a lot of things.

**traitor**

**_Are you okay?_ **

There are a myriad of ways he could respond. (Ooh, myriad. That’s a good word.) Instead, he does what he usually does with Patrick. He tells the truth:

**I want to go home**

When he sobers up, he’ll blame his pathetic vulnerability on the whiskey, but Patrick’s response is immediate:

**_Where are you?_ **

He gives a cursory glance around, but the venue looks like any other club he's been to: two floors, an abundance of booze, and a distinct lack of clothing.

**I don’t know**

He truly doesn’t. He doesn’t remember how he got here or where James fucked off to or what time zone he’s even in (eastern standard, please God), and suddenly the panic is rising.  _Christ, how did he reach this point again?_

**_I’m coming to get you._ **

The panic begins to recede, but he can’t help giggling because Patrick is in Canada. Patrick has a fiancée. Patrick isn’t coming to get him.

_“My truth is that I am damaged goods.”_

He had said that to him once and it wasn’t a lie. He looks down at himself, at his whiskey- and sweat-stained Jean Paul Gaultier sweater. That may be coke on his shoulder but this doesn’t feel like a cocaine buzz, but that is definitely James’ cum on his sleeve from the blowjob he had given him in the bathroom earlier. He doesn’t deserve Patrick Brewer swooping in to save the day.

**don’t bother**

**_David Rose, activate the GPS on your phone. Right now._ **

He snorts because, right, like he knows how the fuck to do that.

**no can do, button**

The phone vibrates in his palm again, but this time, it’s a call, Patrick’s name flashing across the screen and causing tears to gather in David’s eyes. He always forgets how emotional weed makes him. Or maybe it’s just the man calling. He tells himself he doesn’t want to answer, but he’s lying. He does want to answer, but it’s too loud in the club to hear anything anyway. Probably for the best. He made his bed. Now he has to lie in it. Even if said bed belongs to a guy probably fucking someone else in the men’s room.

The DJ starts a remix of Tina Turner mashed with a new song he doesn’t know and he yells a slurred “Fuck off!” in his general direction, before grabbing a cocktail waitress passing by with a tray of shots.

“Hey, do you know how to activate the GPS on my phone?”

She looks annoyed at first, but then she gives him a once over and her expression turns pitying. It’s infuriating.

“Don’t move,” she instructs. “Let me put this down.”

So he doesn’t, because if Patrick Brewer tells him to activate his GPS, he’s going to activate his GP fucking S.

xxxxxx

Patrick continues pacing, guilt and elation creating a heady and nauseating combination in his gut as he waits to see if David responds. Because David told him not to reach out. Patrick offered to leave and David didn’t stop him. Maybe Schitt’s Creek really was just a pitstop on his way to something else.

He knows it wasn’t, but that's what he tells himself so he can sleep at night. 

The phone vibrates in his hand and he nearly drops it in his haste to look at the incoming message. He's never been so happy to see David Rose's name on his screen.

**_who told you_ **

Patrick can almost hear his petulant whine. It makes him smile.

**Stevie.**

**_traitor_ **

He has him talking so he asks again:

**Are you okay?**

He flicks off the basketball because he truly could not care less. His hands are shaking with the adrenaline coursing through him and he takes another swig of beer just to settle his nerves. _Come on, David._

 **_I want to go home_ **comes through a moment later and Patrick is up and grabbing a bag from the hall closet before it even registers that he should probably respond. Or at least find out where it is he’s going. Because, obviously, Patrick is coming for him.

**Where are you?**

He throws a shirt and extra pairs of underwear and socks into the bag, just in case. The jeans will survive a day or two. He'd love nothing more than to arrive and get David back on the first flight out, but he'd rather be prepared for whatever contingencies will inevitably pop up.

The phone vibrates in his pocket again and he pulls it out, his heart sinking when he reads the message.

**_I don’t know_ **

Shit.

 **I’m coming to get you.** he promises before he can think better of it. He’s made promises before, promises he hasn’t been able to keep, but if David asked him for the Titanic, he’d start dialing James Cameron.

**_don’t bother_ **

Nope, they’re not doing this again. David once told him to go and Patrick didn’t fight. He should have. He should have fought with everything he had in him.

**David Rose, activate the GPS on your phone. Right now.**

**_no can do, button_ **

The text is so utterly _David,_ he can’t help but smile, even as his eyes sting.

_“Alexis was right. He’s a button.”_

He taps David’s name, heart already yearning for the sound of his voice, but Patrick doesn’t expect him to answer. Of course he doesn’t and, despite the low bar he’d set, the disappointment is keen.

He leaves a voicemail, trying not to sound too desperate or worried, as he tosses some toiletries haphazardly into the bag and leaves it by the door, before proceeding to grab his laptop off the coffee table and pull up flights. Even with the weather delays, he’s already missed them all, so he books the first flight out the next morning - one on Porter leaving from Centre Island, practically walking distance from his apartment. He’ll land in Newark, which he hears is closer to downtown Manhattan, rather than LaGuardia, though he’s never been.

Patrick doesn’t know much about David’s former life in New York, but he remembers enough to know that most of it revolved around the downtown arts and club scene: Chelsea, Tribeca, Soho, the Meatpacking District. Newark will at least get him closer to the area. And if he has to go door to door once he gets there, so be it.

David still hasn’t responded, but he remembers Stevie and he pulls out his phone to fire off a text to her.

**He’s texted me.**

Her response is immediate:

**_oh good, he’s alive._ **

**_interesting that he responds to u immediately and not to any of us who’ve been trying to reach him for 2 days._ **

_Jesus, two days._ Patrick runs a hand over his face and tries to remember how to breathe. He shouldn’t ask, but he just can’t help himself.

**Who’s this asshole he’s seeing?**

**_never met him. name’s james._ **

James. He hates the name.

He closes his eyes and tips his head back against the couch, mentally tallying what else he needs to pack. Since he won’t be leaving until the morning, he’ll throw his toothbrush and razor in then when he’s finished with them, though he doubts he’ll get much sleep tonight. Which means he should probably pull out his passport tonight so he doesn’t forget in the sleep-deprived wee hours.

His phone vibrates again and the alert pops up on the screen:

_**David Rose is now sharing his location** _

He gasps as he scrambles to tap the map icon, showing a pulsing blue dot somewhere in the Meatpacking District. If he zooms in, it looks like he’s on 10th Avenue between W. 17th and 18th. A quick google search tells him David is most likely at a trendy club called Avenue. He presses the phone to his forehead again before sighing deeply and bringing up the text chain again.

**I’m coming for you.**

He thinks for a moment before adding:

**Be safe.**

Only David Rose could be both the life and death of him. Christ, he can’t wait to see him again.

Thinking of the others he left behind, he opens his contacts, trembling finger hovering over her name. Before he can think better of it, he pulls up a new message:

**I’m going to find your brother.**

The ellipses come immediately, though the message is shorter than he expects. She must have started and deleted multiple iterations, which in itself is something. Alexis Rose doesn’t choose her words carefully.

But when the text comes, he finds himself blowing out a wet breath, unable to keep his emotions in check any longer.

**_bring him home. <3_ **


	2. Sometimes Good Things Fall Apart

Something has died in his mouth.

David smacks his lips together, tongue feeling fuzzy and head pounding harder than the bass at Kendall Jenner’s yacht party at Cannes. He blindly reaches out and knocks something expensive sounding from the bedside table. Oh good, he’s in a bed. He recognizes the feel of pillows now.

Squinting his eye open, he groans in the morning light, recoiling like Brad Pitt in Interview with the Vampire. _Too early_ , he thinks, though he has no idea what time it is. It could be past noon.

His insides feel like they’ve been turned outside and he wracks his jumbled (and possibly still high) brain to recall what he consumed the night before. Definitely whiskey. Possibly vodka. Tequila? Sure.

His stomach lurches and he claps a hand over his mouth, thankful he actually made it to James’ townhouse and he knows exactly which direction the en suite bathroom is. He throws himself off the bed, tripping over various detritus, dropping onto his knees in front of the toilet, and emptying the contents of his stomach.

Oh, definitely tequila.

He groans and heaves again, waiting until he thinks he’s definitely done before flushing the toilet and pulling himself up to the sink to splash some water on his sweaty face.

And Jesus, he looks _terrible._ He’d scream if he hadn’t fried his vocal cords the night before. His skin is pale and gaunt, the half-moons under his eyes a lurid purple, almost matching the bruise gracing his left cheekbone. There’s no under-eye patch in the world let alone the entirety of a Sephora to fix those monstrosities. His five o’clock shadow hasn’t been attended to in far too long and his eyes are bloodshot and, frankly, kind of scary. And don’t even get him started on his hair.

There’s a lowkey buzzing in his brain which makes him think the drugs haven’t worked their way entirely through his system yet. He peeks back into the bedroom and his stomach lurches again. There are empty nips of vodka everywhere, as if someone had exploded a minibar, not to mention a few condom wrappers although whether they’re from a tryst of his or someone else’s, he honestly can’t recall. He remembers their romp before they left for the club - the E hadn’t hit yet - and he’s still feeling that. There are scratches on his chest and finger bruises on his hips. He and James could have gone another round when they returned, but he honestly doesn’t remember much after the blowjob in the bathroom at Avenue. Was it Avenue?  

He presses the heels of his palms into his eyes and wills himself not to cry. He needs to stop doing this. For so, so many reasons.

The doorbell rings a moment later and he attempts to pull himself together. Breaking down in the bathroom on his own is one thing - doing it front of James is entirely another matter.

He finds his abandoned sweater in a heap on the floor and he picks it up, recoiling at the stench of alcohol and smoke wafting from it. His black jeans aren’t far either but tugging them on is proving to be a battle he is most definitely losing. Damn skinny cut.

The apartment is oddly silent and he listens, but doesn’t hear anyone make a move towards the foyer. Sure enough, the doorbell rings again. Groaning, he all but stomps down the stairs, taking a moment to calm his roiling stomach before throwing the door open and inhaling deeply to tongue lash whomever is waiting on the other side -

And Patrick fucking Brewer is standing on the stoop in front of him, arm raised and hand fisted, looking about ready to bang the door down.

David has missed him so acutely, his legs nearly give out.

“Patrick,” he blurts out, brain unable to compute just what exactly his ex is doing in New York let alone on his current boyfriend’s front step. (Are we doing ‘boyfriend’?)

“Christ, David,” Patrick whispers, sounding about as shattered as David feels. Patrick’s eyes scan his face, clocking the bruises and the bags, and despite the frankly abhorrent hangover he has, David can still see every emotion that flits across Patrick’s devastatingly open features. He looks exhausted and angry and so goddamn relieved that David actually does swoon then.

“Whoa, hey,” Patrick says, quickly grabbing David with strong hands on either shoulder and carefully backing him into the front hall. “Breathe. Breathe for me.”

“How are you here?” he manages as Patrick gets him into the Herman Miller chair and guides his head between his knees.

“That’s it. Nice and slow,” he coaxes, before saying, “You activated the GPS in your phone.”  

He did?

“Yes,” Patrick says and only then does David realize he asked the question out loud. “Breathe for me, nice and slow,” he urges, gently rubbing his hand up and down David’s back.

“That sounds vaguely familiar, yes,” he admits, vague pieces of broken memory coming back to him as the nausea clears. “That doesn’t explain why you’re here.”

“You said you wanted to go home.”

He doesn’t remember that either, but the overwhelming wave of longing that crashes over him suggests that Patrick’s not wrong. He stays quiet, though, so Patrick continues:

“Stevie was worried about you. I reached out. You replied,” he simply states, cool hand cupping the back of David’s hot neck and all he wants to do is nuzzle into the touch. It’s such a Patrick thing to do - rescue him. Part of him bristles because he’s not some fucking damsel in distress but then he thinks of the vodka bottles and condom wrappers and bruises and being rescued actually doesn’t sound all that bad. Being coddled and taken care of actually sounds… nice.

He forgot what that felt that.

“So you came to get me.” David needs clarification on this because it _sounds_ like Patrick flew nearly 500 miles and across country borders to find him.

“I came to get you,” Patrick confirms, offering a tight, sad smile and letting his hand drop away.

It takes all of David’s will power not to whimper.

With a deep inhale, he sits up, meeting Patrick’s eyes for the first time since he opened the door. He can see the pain on his face - the heartbreak at finding David in such a situation, but he also sees something else there; something he forced himself to ignore the moment he told Patrick to leave. Not many people have looked at him with love, but if they did, he imagines it would look something like that.

“Let’s go home.”

xxxxxx

Patrick is very grateful that there’s a Starbucks on every block in New York because he left his apartment at 5am and didn’t sleep a wink in the hours preceding it. He spent the entire time watching the blinking blue dot telling him David’s location, praying that David’s phone didn’t lose its battery before he could get there. At around 3am, the dot moved from the location of the club on 10th Avenue to what looked like a residence on Franklin Street in Tribeca. Unfortunately, his maps app won’t get specific enough to give him an apartment number, but at least he has the building. With any luck, this asshole James owns the whole thing.

Then Patrick thinks of David staying in another man’s apartment. A man that has Stevie and Alexis worried and his stomach churns.

Suddenly coffee doesn’t seem so necessary. David first.

He stares up at the brick facade, eyes squinting in the morning light peeking over the townhomes and in-between the skyscrapers. His palms are sweaty but David is probably somewhere on the other side of that door, so he raises his hand and pushes the bell, leaning his head closer to see if he can hear the soft patter of approaching feet. For a while, he hears nothing and he anxiously adjusts the strap of the bag hanging on his shoulder.

He rings again.

“C’mon, David,” he whispers, bouncing on his toes, tension humming through his fingers in case the door opens to someone he’d really rather not meet.

Finally, the muffled sound of footsteps thundering down the stairs greets his ears and he holds his breath, waiting for the inevitable reveal -

But it does nothing to prepare him for the sight that greets him on the other side.

David stands there looking absolutely _wrecked._ His eyes are bloodshot and his skin sallow. The purple beneath his eyes merges perfectly and gruesomely with a bruise blossoming on the crest of his left cheekbone.

“Patrick,” David blurts, but Patrick can barely hear him. His ears are ringing and it feels like a vise is closing around his lungs.

“Christ, David,” he breathes and he’s so, so grateful that his voice doesn’t crack. He wants to reach for him, to trace the lines on his face and heal his hurts. But there are clearly wounds that he can’t see, pain that is deeper that no grand gesture can erase.

David pales several shades and his gaze goes vacant. Patrick realizes it’s happening a second before it does: he grips David’s shoulders just as his knees buckle and Patrick holds on tight just to keep him upright.

“Whoa, hey,” he says, wanting nothing more than to crush him to his chest, but that’s not his place anymore. “Breathe. Breathe for me.” Instead, he spies a chair just over his shoulder and he maneuvers David into the modern art-looking monstrosity, dropping his bag on the floor and gently guiding David’s head between his knees with a palm on the back of his neck.  

“How are you here?” David nearly moans. His neck is hot and his skin clammy.

“That’s it. Nice and slow.” He ignores the question for a moment, before replying, “You activated the GPS in your phone.”  

Oh God, does he not remember anything? Patrick suddenly feels so entirely wrong-footed. Drunk David asking him to come is not the same as Sober David actually wanting him there.

“I did?”

“Yes,” Patrick says succinctly because if he’s about to be kicked out, they might as well get it over with, but David merely hums, breaths still shallow and entirely too fast. “Breathe for me, nice and slow,” he urges, gently rubbing his hand up and down David’s back.

“That sounds vaguely familiar, yes,” David finally admits. “That doesn’t explain why you’re here.”

Patrick’s hand pauses in the space right between his shoulder blades. He can feel David’s pounding heart. “You said you wanted to go home.”

David remains silent, but his shuddering breaths have slowed down to something more sustainable.

“Stevie was worried about you. I reached out. You replied,” he simply states, hand cupping the back of David’s hot neck once more.

“So you came to get me.”

“I came to get you,” he confirms, offering a sad excuse for a smile and letting his hand drop away. Ball’s in David’s court now. Patrick can’t help if the help’s not wanted.

David slowly sits up and stares at him for the first time since he opened the door, and Patrick feels like one of those bugs pinned to the board in his AP Bio class. He tries to school his face into something simple, something not easily defined that in no way showcases the absolutely _insane_ amount of emotions he’s feeling. And something in David’s expression changes - whatever it is he sees, it’s almost like a sense of resolve comes over him. Patrick doesn’t realize he’s holding his breath until his vision starts to blur at the edges.

“Let’s go home.”

“Okay,” Patrick breathes, rubbing his hands on his jeans once more. “Let’s get your stuff.”

David nods and stands, wobbling only slightly as he heads for the glass-enclosed wooden staircase. He doesn’t turn to make sure Patrick is following, but he doesn’t need to. Patrick would follow him to the gates of hell if asked. If not asked, he’d probably follow anyway.

The stairs lead out of the vestibule and onto the first floor. Though the outside is a staple of classic New York turn of the century style, the inside has clearly been gutted and remodeled in modern minimalism. Frankly, Patrick thinks it’s beyond ugly. “Fugly” as David might even say.

“Um…” David begins, looking around as if trying to get his bearings.

“Did you have a bag?” Patrick asks.

“Yeah, it’s in the bedroom.” David gestures carelessly upstairs but Patrick can read the anxiety between the lines.

“Do you want me to get it for you?”

“No, I’ll - I’ll do it,” David murmurs, glancing around once more. Patrick frowns.

“David, is someone else here?”

David looks up and swallows hard. “I don’t know.”

“Okay,” he says so quietly, uneasiness creeping up his spine to tap on his shoulder. He’d really like to get out of this place asap, but David is acting almost… manic. “David,” he starts slowly, “I’m going to ask you a question, and I’d really love it if you’d tell me the truth.” He licks his lips. “Please.” His hands drop from where they’d gravitated to his hips because the last thing he wants is for this to feel like an interrogation. But still - he needs to know the answer. He needs to be prepared. “What did you take?”

David freezes and slowly turns to look at him. Patrick nearly recoils at the disgust in his eyes.

_Oh fuck._

“No,” he spits with venom.

“No, what?”

“Not you, too.”

Patrick is trying to keep up with the conversation, but David has begun pacing the length of what is a hideous but no doubt exorbitantly priced area rug. "Not me too' what? I just want to help - "

David crosses his arms in front of himself like a shield, braced for battle. “Why do you want to help? What do you care anyway?”

Patrick reels back as if slapped. “Of course I care - ”

“You want to judge me? Well, get in line. Oh yes," he says, gesturing grandly, "David Rose fucked up again, ladies and gentlemen - ”

“David, how can you say that? I would _never_ judge you. I _have_ never judged you - ”

“Well why the fuck not?” David yells, before swiftly clapping a hand over his mouth as he listens for a noise over their harsh panting. Sure enough, they both freeze as the downstairs door opens and closes with a slam.

Patrick turns towards the staircase, arms down at his sides, but tensed for whatever is about to greet him at the top of the steps. Unfortunately, what greets him is a very tall, very blonde, very handsome asshole whom Patrick hates immensely.

James catches sight of them and halts, one eyebrow raised in disdain as he stares at Patrick, barely offering David a glance.

“Who the fuck are you?” English, too, the bastard.

He’s been down this road before, though. It’s not an unfamiliar one:

_“Who’s this guy?”_

_“This… is… my - that’s - ”_

_“Patrick.”_

_“That’s Patrick.”_

_“And you are?”_

_“Picking up Stevie.”_

_“So I’m not getting a name then.”_

He was caught off-guard last time, but he refuses to relinquish whatever ground his surprise appearance has given him. But then he looks at David. David, who’s staring at him, totally lost, and he’s never seen his ex look so small. Or so scared.

Fuck the ground he’s gained. He’ll burn this place to the earth if he has to. 

James is still looking at them expectantly, so Patrick determinedly doesn’t look in David’s direction as he clearly and firmly states:

“I’m his boyfriend. Who the fuck are you?”

_Oh, you idiot._

xxxxxx

David’s brain is just white noise.

_Wait - what?_

James looks confused for a moment, mouth gaping like a fish on a dock, and David wishes he had the wherewithal to take a photo, but Patrick just said he was his _boyfriend_ so potential blackmail material on his current worst mistake will have to go on the back burner for a hot second.

Patrick doesn’t even wait for James to answer before he’s turning towards him and taking his hand. “David, where’s your stuff?”

And, wow, if that’s not hot. Sweet, too, but mainly hot.

“Um…” he manages, before James recovers from his momentary lapse of douchebaggery.

“You always let him fuck better guys when you’re out of town?” he asks, gesturing to the excess around them, as if he is a class above them. As if he could even compete with Patrick Brewer.

Patrick’s grip on his hand tightens to the point of pain, but David isn’t breathing.

“Let’s go,” Patrick nearly growls, tugging David towards the stairs but James steps in front of them.

“What are you, his keeper?”

“I’m not his keeper, I’m his partner,” he snaps. “And we’re going home.”

“Home?” James scoffs. “Nah, he’s not going anywhere,” he says, getting a hand on David’s arm and Patrick is just _done._ He grabs the arm not holding David, winds up, and decks James so hard, the man releases his hold on the Gaultier sweater and goes sprawling back into the fake Picasso.

“Oh my God,” David breathes, terrified and yet aroused, which is a conversation he can save for a therapist on another day.

“David,” Patrick says, grabbing David’s face oh-so-gently in his hands, “your stuff. Where is it?”

“Upstairs,” he breathes and Patrick nods once, quick and succinct, before taking his hand once more and guiding him towards the staircase.

The silence around them is suffocating, and David clears his throat, desperately trying not to think about how perfectly his palm still fits in Patrick’s. How tightly their fingers thread together and hold, like the teeth of a zipper.

“You didn’t have to do that,” he murmurs, just for something to say.

“Oh I think I did,” Patrick nearly growls, flexing his right hand yet not paying his swelling knuckles any attention. But their pace slows as they reach the next floor and the righteous anger that had been flowing through Patrick seems to deflate after a moment. “Sorry if that was out of line,” he murmurs.

 _Which part?_ David wants to ask. _The boyfriend part or the punching part?_ Frankly, both garner the same answer:

“No, it was - it was fine.” Fine? It was _incandescent_.

As if he heard that last thought, Patrick quirks a smile before nodding at the various doors in front of them. “Which way?”

David leads him towards to the far end of the hall, his feet feeling more and more leaden with every step he takes. The ghosts of his previous errors in judgement are lying just on the other side of the door, coming back to haunt him like fucking Banquo at the feast. He stops just outside and stares down at their still clasped hands.

“I don’t want you to come in here.”

Patrick frowns. “Why not?”

He thinks of the condom wrapper (at least they used one) and the bottles of vodka. Of the mistakes he’s made since Patrick left that he has no one to blame but himself for. Of the progress he’s walked back ever since moving to Schitt’s Creek and how badly he wants to find _that_ David again.

“You promised not to judge me?” He means it as a statement, a reminder, but it comes out as a question, entirely too small. Entirely too meek.

Patrick’s features almost break - his brows come together and his lips part - and he exhales a breath like the air as been punched from his lungs. He lifts David’s hand, still in his own, and when he presses it to his chest, David can feel the steady thump of his heart.

“Never.”

David nods and closes his eyes as he shoulders open the door, not needing to see Patrick’s expression when he takes in the wreckage that has become David’s life. He makes a beeline over to the chair in the corner where his bag was tossed haphazardly when they arrived on Thursday. James had had no interest in letting him get settled this time before David was dragged off to some event that was known more for its backdoor dealings than its front of house wares.

Truth be told, most of the last 48 hours are a bit of a blur.

He picks up a discarded pair of black jeans and a pair of underwear, turning just in time to find Patrick carefully folding one of his sweaters.

He’s not sure why it’s that, of all the wonderful things Patrick has done in the last ten minutes alone, that has his tenuous resolve crumbling. A hot tear splashes on his cheek and he tries to swallow, but the lump in his throat isn’t moving one bit. He tries to inhale but it’s wet and noisy, and he knows without having to look at his face that Patrick’s gaze is on him.

“Hey,” he whispers.

David nods to indicate he hears him, but he still won’t look up. Another tear falls, then another. He’s just so goddamn tired.

He can feel Patrick approach before he slowly reaches out and takes the clothes from his hand, placing them all in the leather bag at David’s feet. He moves into the en suite bathroom next and David can hear the telltale clack of bottles banging together. He’s about to ask if Patrick needs help, but a thought occurs and his mouth shuts with a click.

Of course Patrick knows which toiletries are his. He’d seen him do his skincare routine more than enough times.

It just makes the tears fall harder.

Patrick comes back into the bedroom and stops a few feet away, looking like he’d love nothing more than to wrap David up in his arms, and as much as David would be more than amenable, he appreciates Patrick’s restraint. The gesture might be just compassionate enough to break him irreparably.

“Is this all?” Patrick softly asks, not commenting on the barely muffled sobs now clawing their way out of his David’s throat.

David nods even if it’s not true. He doesn’t care anymore. He just wants to go home.

Patrick gives him a minute to compose himself as much as he can, before they head back downstairs. He holds out his free hand, wiggling his fingers a bit, which draws a smile to David’s face as he takes it. Before they turn to go, Patrick manhandles him (gently though, because he’s always fucking gentle even when bodily moving him from one place to the other), cupping his face with one hand, dropping the bag, and using his thumb to hold David’s eyelid open with the other.

“Your pupils are the size of basketballs. They’ll never let you through security,” he says, resigned.

“What?”

“Your eyes. You still look high as a kite. I wanted to catch the first flight back, but…” Patrick rubs the back of his neck and sighs. “We may need to spend the night.”

To be perfectly honest, the idea of flying at the moment makes him want to hurl into the nearest Ming vase, but the idea of staying any longer than he has to has him feeling equally ill.

“Here?” he asks, voice too high, fear too palpable.

“God, no,” Patrick breathes, immediately shifting back to caring mode, and cupping his face in his hands. “No, babe, we’re getting out of here right now.”

David notices the term of endearment, but doesn’t call him out for it. Rather, he wraps it around himself like a warm blanket he wants to burrow under on a winter night. “Okay,” he whispers.

“Okay,” Patrick echoes, leaning up and pressing a chaste kiss on his forehead. When he pulls away, David nearly stumbles in his effort to follow him, but Patrick is already picking up the leather bag and taking his hand once more. He remembers Patrick had a bag, too, but they must have left it by the front door.

When they get to the next floor, James is in the kitchen slicing an apple, of all the fucking things. Patrick barely pauses, but it’s long enough should David wish to say anything. He really doesn’t.

“You’ll be back,” James casually tosses in David’s direction, like it’s a given, before turning to Patrick. “He likes it rough. Guess there’s a void you haven’t been filling, boyfriend.”

Before Patrick can deck him again, David fires back:

“He fills my voids just fine, thanks,” and his brain silently screams _what the fuck was that?_ at him as he takes the lead in tugging Patrick towards the stairs heading to the front door.

He needs to get out of the house. The adrenaline spike from seeing Patrick again had made his hangover waver, but the pounding behind his eyes is steadily getting stronger and he can already feel the itchy burn of detox settling in.

Patrick is oddly silent next to him, bending down quickly to retrieve his fallen bag, but never letting go of David’s hand. As if David would let him.

“Where to?” he asks when they hit the street, but Patrick is already pulling out his phone and tapping away one-handed with his thumb. 

The comedown is going to be swift but brutal, he can tell. It won’t matter which hotel Patrick gets them.

He won’t remember much of it anyway.

xxxxxx

It’s started raining in New York, which Patrick thinks is pretty typical, all things considered.

He glances back at the bed, one of two doubles wedged into the cheapest hotel Patrick could find in Tribeca, which was not easy. But it was still a Marriott and David’s standards seemed to be as low as his blood sugar levels. Patrick had all but managed to get him into the room before he was face-planting on the bed, not even moving when Patrick pulled his shoes off.

That was four hours ago. The late-morning sun has given way to dark clouds and the occasional clap of thunder. Outside the window, the top of the World Trade Center disappears into the sky.

David has at least stopped shivering. Patrick has never witnessed someone come down before, let alone someone he cares deeply for, and it’s possibly one of the most terrifying things he’s ever seen. This isn’t how he thought he’d be spending his first trip to New York, but the devil himself couldn’t tear him from David’s side. He had at least managed to get some sips of water into him as he tossed and turned.

He grabbed some food and supplies from the little market in the lobby, and he has a Women’s World Cup game muted on the television. It almost feels like those lazy Sundays when the store was closed and David would be sprawled on the couch with his phone while Ray worked some wedding and Patrick watched a baseball game with David’s head in his lap.

Almost.

_“I’m his boyfriend. Who the fuck are you?”_

What was _that_ about? Patrick certainly isn’t territorial, but in that moment, he wanted nothing more than to grab James by the collar and body slam him up against the wall of his own home.

_“He fills my voids just fine, thanks.”_

He can’t help but snort at that, though, feeling a familiar blush heat his ears. David always did have a way with words, snarky (and dirty) ones especially. It makes Patrick recall hurried trysts in the storeroom and entirely too many hookups in the back of his car for two men in their thirties.

His phone buzzes and he thinks  _Finally_ as he reaches for it, having texted Stevie over two hours ago that he was with David and that they were in a hotel. 

**_the hero of the hour._ **

He rolls his eyes. **Shut** **up, Stevie.**

_**oh ouch. david must be rubbing off on u. not literally I hope.** _

He pinches the bridge of his nose. He really doesn't have the energy to meet her text for text, and maybe she senses that because she immediately follows up with: 

**_i'm glad he's safe._ **

**Me too.** God, he really is. 

_**I don't think he would have gone with anyone but u.** _

And he really doesn't know what to say to that. It can't possibly be true, but before he can refute it, a groan comes from the bed and he moves over to perch on the edge, watching as David’s eyes slowly blink open. He waits to speak until they blearily glance around the room before slowly focusing on him.

“Hey,” he murmurs.

“Hi,” David croaks. “You really are here.”

Patrick smiles. “Fraid so.” He reaches for the bottle of Gatorade by the bed. “Here, get some electrolytes into you.”

David grunts as he pushes himself up and collapses against the headboard, reaching out for the red drink with a shaking hand.  

“How do you feel?” Patrick asks, which seems like a dumb question, but he has to know.

“Like Britney Spears circa 2007,” David replies and Patrick chuckles.

“Well, at least your color’s returning. You were channeling Joel Grey in Cabaret for a bit.”

David hums. “Love that musical. Prefer Alan Cumming, though.”

“Not familiar,” Patrick replies with a smile.

“Your loss.” Silence descends except for the overly loud swallows David’s throat makes as he tries to find the balance between quenching his thirst and not drinking so much so quickly that he throws up. “Why are you being so nice to me?” he asks after a heavy moment and, for a second, Patrick can only blink dumbly at him.

After all, he could answer in any number of ways:

_I care for you._

_I’ve missed you._

_I never stopped loving you._

But he doesn’t. A declaration like any of the aforementioned would probably send David running in the other direction. Patrick can only chase him for so long. 

“You asked me to come," he replies eventually and David raises an eyebrow as he takes another sip. 

“Did I?” he says, and it’s somewhat challenging.

Patrick opens his mouth to answer, going back over the previous night’s texts in his head, before abruptly realizing that, no, David didn’t actually ask him to come. He said he wanted to come home and Patrick offered to come get him.

But he didn’t offer either, did he? He just - _said_ he was coming. _Oh, God._ Before he can work himself up into a full-blown panic, David is cutting him off and saving him from himself.

“I’m glad you came,” he says softly, sincerity replacing the challenging look that graced those beautiful features a moment ago.

“I’m glad I did, too,” Patrick replies, wanting nothing more than to place a comforting hand on David’s leg but _too much too fast._ He clears his throat and digs his phone out of his pocket. “Are you feeling well enough to get a flight out tonight? It’s only just after 4pm. There’s one out of Newark at 8:30pm, but only if you’re up for it. We have the room regardless,” he rambles.

Something in David’s face shutters, which only makes the rambling worse.

“We can definitely stay, though. There’s really no rush. I brought - I have clothes. And we can have yours dry-cleaned if need be.”  

“Right,” David clips, downing the rest of the gatorade. “You probably want to get back to your fiancée.”

Something jolts through Patrick, visceral enough to have him standing up and stumbling a few paces away from the bed. “I don’t have a fiancée.”

David freezes. “What?”

“David, I don’t - ” he can tell his eyes are wide because they’re starting to burn, but he doesn’t dare blink. “I haven’t had a fiancée in all the time you’ve known me.”

David stares at him and slowly stands on the other side of the bed, a metaphor for all that’s been left between them if there ever was one. “But you did,” he says, not accusingly, per se, but curiously.

“But I did," Patrick agrees. _Honesty_ , he reminds himself. 

“But not now.”

“No.”

David licks his lips and nods, slowly backing up towards the bathroom. “Okay. Um, I can’t process any of this at the moment. Maybe later, after I’ve had some pancakes and maybe a Pellegrino. And most importantly, a shower.”  

“I was gonna say,” he teases, but the words trip over the lump in his throat.

David disappears, but not before offering one last enigmatic look over his shoulder. The door shuts and Patrick hears the shower start. He truly has no idea what to make of that conversation. Has David truly thought he’s been engaged this whole time? That he went back to Rachel after their fight? Or, God forbid, that he had never left her in the first place?

Now he’s the one feeling slightly ill and looking around for the Saltine crackers he had purchased earlier, sitting down heavily on the bed and dropping his head in his hands. He catches sight of David's bag on the floor when something occurs to him: 

David doesn’t have his shampoo and conditioner.

He has no idea why _that’s_ the thought that crosses his mind, but it is. He remembers tossing the fancy bottles in earlier, bottles that David most definitely did not bring into the bathroom with him, so he stands with a sigh and unzips the leather bag, rooting through its meager contents before he pulls them out.

“David?” he calls. “I have your shampoo.”

The door opens a crack and a hand creeps out, taking the shampoo first, placing it on the counter, followed by the conditioner.

He thinks that’s it - that’s how this exchange ends, but then David is calling his name and Patrick has no choice but to answer.

“Yes?”

“Put the flights on here,” he says, handing over a credit card. “I’d like to leave tonight.”

xxxxxx

Couple sometimes debilitating anxiety with a crippling fear of heights and it’s safe to say that David has never been particularly fond of flying. Add on the absolutely insane confusion he’s been feeling ever since Patrick uttered, _“I don’t have a_ _fiancée_ _”_ and David is one hyperventilation away from a full-blown panic attack.

He had stood under the spray of the shower, face turned into the surprisingly decent water pressure and turned the words in his head over and over again.

 _“I haven’t had a_ _fiancée_ _in all the time you’ve known me.”_ But what did that _mean_? He knows he didn’t hallucinate the cute, petite redhead who ruined sliders for life for him.  

When he had come back out out of the bathroom, finally feeling human for the first time in far too long, Patrick was on his phone, eyes glancing from the screen to David’s credit card and back again.

“All booked?” he had asked and Patrick had nodded. “Remember my birthday?” He had meant it to be teasing, but he doesn’t think he’ll ever forget the wounded look Patrick gave him in return.

“Of course I remember your birthday,” he said softly. 

_“We could go for a birthday dinner?”_

_“You don’t have to do that.”_

_“No, I-I’d like to.”_

**“Ladies and gentlemen, we’re beginning our final descent into Toronto’s City Airport. Please make sure your seat-backs and tray tables are in their upright and locked positions. Thank you.”**

The voice over the intercom brings him back to the present and he grips the armrest hard enough to turn his knuckles white. Landings have always been his least favorite part of any trip.

Without a word, Patrick reaches over and gently but firmly pries his fingers from the plastic, and holds his hand. He had taken the window seat because there was no way David wanted to see just how far away from the ground he was.

David stares down at their interlocked fingers, throat working through the sudden onslaught of emotion he feels. He’d love nothing more than to blame it on the residual high, or the lack of Xanax, but unfortunately (or fortunately, really) his bloodstream is both prescription and illicit drug-free.

Patrick is looking out the window, but David can see his reflection in the glass and, for the first time, he notices just how exhausted Patrick looks. How drained.

How sad.

And for the first time, it finally hits him just what this man did for him. He flew to New York, after six months of radio silence, six months after David told him to leave, because Stevie had said she was worried. Because David had told him he wanted to go home.

He squeezes his hand.

After a moment, Patrick squeezes back.

The plane’s wheels hit the tarmac and, for the first time in half a year, he feels like he takes a breath.  


	3. So Better Things Can Fall Together

It’s the first time David has explored anything that’s been distinctly _Patrick’s_. The store was his first - his color palette, his decor, his stock. Patrick’s bedroom was technically Ray’s - his flowered wallpaper, his brass headboard, his fugly red velvet armchair. Patrick had discussed getting his own place, but shit hit the fan before he could so much as look at listings.

Well, he did look at new places, David supposes. Just not in Schitt’s Creek.

He glances up at the building as he steps out of the cab. It’s in downtown Toronto, by the water, a stone’s throw away from the small airport they just came from. Tall and glass and the complete opposite of everything he associates with Patrick. Bankers live in this building. Not part-owners of general, but very specific stores.

And he still is. Rose Apothecary is still part-his. Patrick never asked for his initial investment back, and to offer it might have actually broken David. Sure, he no longer paid him a salary, but he set aside his percentage of the profits, always figuring (hoping) that one day he’d be able to give it to him.

“This way,” Patrick murmurs, offering a tight smile and a nod towards the front door as he hikes the strap of his bag over his shoulder. He’s been quiet ever since they left the hotel and it’s unnerving David.

His phone buzzes in his pocket, interrupting his morose musings, and he pulls it out to see Stevie’s name on the screen. He’s honestly surprised he hasn’t heard from her before now, but he supposes that’s Patrick’s doing. He’s seen him on his phone when he thinks David isn’t looking. Sure enough, he unlocks the phone and pulls up his messages.

**_welcome back to the north_ **

Patrick must have let her know they landed.

**thank you**

**_ur an asshole for disappearing like that_ **

He rolls his eyes.

**I know**

An ellipses appears, but when the next text comes through, his stomach drops.

**_u don’t deserve him_ **

He knows she means it as a joke, because it’s Stevie, but the words cut deep.

No. No, he doesn’t.

**I know that too**

“David?” Patrick calls and he looks up to realize that Patrick has made his way across the lobby and is waiting by the open elevator.

“Sorry,” he mutters, lowering his head and hurrying to follow.

It’s not quite 11pm but the lobby is empty, save for the doorman reading a book behind the front desk. The floors are polished marble and the paneling in the elevator is a rich mahogany. The doors slide closed and he catches his reflection in the stainless steel, letting out an inadvertent groan.

“That nap did nothing for me.”

Patrick chuckles. “Well, I’m not exactly looking my best either, so… at least you’re not alone.”

David thinks he looks perfect, tired eyes and all. His phone buzzes again, three times in rapid succession, but he doesn’t want to look at it.

“Someone’s popular,” Patrick says.

“Stevie is not a popularity barometer.”

Patrick glances at him in the reflection of the elevator. “Not going to look at it?”

“She’s in a time out at the moment,” he snaps, even as his phone buzzes once more, prompting another groan.

Patrick doesn’t press the issue, though, for which David is grateful. The elevator stops on the 9th floor and he follows Patrick down the hall to a door on the left: 9L.

“Fancy,” David murmurs, as Patrick unlocks it and kicks it back. The decor matches the rest of the building. It’s not as warm as he would expect of Patrick: the couch is a bit too dark, the artwork a bit too austere. “Can’t beat the view,” he offers as he makes his way over to the window.

“That’s what sold me on the place,” Patrick says as he drops his bag unceremoniously on the floor and stretches out his neck. “I think I’m going to take a shower.”

“I was gonna say,” David teases, parroting Patrick’s words back to him and Patrick smiles. Something unclenches in David’s chest at the sight. He doesn’t like this guarded Patrick.

“Um, are you hungry? I’m sure there’s a pizza place still open.”

And now that David thinks about it, he’s ravenous. The snack on the plane was not nearly enough to heal his hungover constitution. “Yeah, but I’ll find it. You shower.” He waves his phone and only then does he realize it means he can’t avoid the texts from Stevie anymore. Or anything else on his phone. It's been on its last legs of battery life so he's left it in his pocket all day. 

“Okay,” Patrick replies, toeing off his shoes and heading towards the bedroom. “Get whatever you’d like.”  

“Except anchovies,” David says. “I remember.”

A soft look graces Patrick’s face before he disappears. David hears the sound of a shower turn on a moment later.

He ignores Stevie’s texts for the time being, pulling up a food delivery app and finding the nearest pizza place that’s open. He orders a large meat-lovers pizza because he needs the grease (and the protein, but mainly the grease), before finally opening his messages. Stevie’s first three have a timestamp within a minute of each other:

**_i didn’t mean that_ **

**_u both deserve each other_ **

**_ur just morons_ **

Well, he can’t argue with her there. He scrolls down and reads the most recent one, biting his lips to keep them from wobbling.

**_i’m glad ur home. i missed u._ **

But he’s not home yet. Toronto isn’t home, even if Patrick’s place feels like sinking into a warm bath.

 **missed you too.** he sends back before noticing the string of texts from Patrick the night before. He never did get around to rereading them, not when he had the real thing right there in front of him. Turns out everything Patrick said was true. Not that he doubted it, but it's nice to get confirmation. To ease back into that trust. He closes his messages and only then does he notice the red  **1** over his phone icon. He opens it up to find a voicemail and all of a sudden, he remembers dismissing Patrick's call the night before. Not because he didn't want to talk but because he knew he wouldn't be able to hear. With a shaking hand, he presses play and listens to Patrick's voice through the speaker, worried and warm and just a little bit desperate: 

_"David, it's Patrick. Please just - please tell me where you are. Or call me and I'll walk you through how to turn on your GPS. I'm... I just want you to be okay. Call me. Please."_

The message ends and he replays it, blinking through the tears that cloud his eyes. If he ever had any doubt that Patrick truly cared about him, well. He needn't have worried. Shutting his phone down, he glances around, trying to get a sense of this new Patrick. This Patrick that's a little quieter, a little more introspective, a little more melancholy. There are some artsy black and white stock photos (of New York, of all places) framed and hanging on the wall on either side of the tv. A picture resides on a mostly empty bookshelf of two people who can only be Patrick’s parents. The knowledge that he has his mother’s eyes is something that David didn’t know he needed to have. An old baseball glove is next to the picture and a ball is in a plastic case, signed by someone whose name David doesn’t recognize.

There’s no Rachel anywhere in the apartment. There is, however, another frame tucked behind the few books Patrick does have, remnants from summer reading lists in high school and college, no doubt: Salinger and Kerouac and Keats, along with some classics from King and Gaiman and a couple of newer thrillers that David is sure some website told Patrick he should be devouring on a beach somewhere. The frame isn’t deliberately hidden, necessarily, but it’s definitely been pushed to the back and not rescued again. Or dusted.

He pulls it out and chokes on a gasp as his own face stares back at him. A face that’s far happier than it has any right to be because the David in that picture doesn’t yet know that the man next to him with his arm around his shoulder will be both the making and the eventual breaking of him. He remembers it now: Alexis had taken it the day after they opened the store, after the debris from their “soft opening” had been cleaned up and they knew they had a success on their hands. They're standing outside the Apothecary in the sun, both grinning like fools, arms around each other. He doesn’t know how Patrick got a copy of it because it was definitely taken on Alexis’ phone, but Patrick always did have a way of ingratiating himself with the people already in David’s life.

The water shuts off and he shoves the photo back where it was, surprised by how painful that is for him. That photo deserves to be seen, to be displayed out in the open.

But, like so many other wasted opportunities in his life, David leaves well enough alone.

xxxxxx

Patrick runs the towel over his head feeling like he just ran a marathon with a weighted vest strapped to his chest. The exhaustion is bone-deep, both physical and emotional, and though he’d love nothing more than to climb into his bed, his stomach is loudly protesting the fact that he hasn’t put anything in it in far too long.

He hangs the towel up on the hook on the back of the door and heads into the living room, bare feet moving of their own accord towards the smell of pepperoni and melted cheese. He heard the buzzer while he’d been getting his pajamas on and now his too-long sweatpants drag on the floor as he moves over to the small, round table in the corner and collapses into the chair.

“Needed the grease?” he asks wryly, but he can feel a full grin coming on as he watches David try to wrangle a piece of pizza past his lips.

“Uh huh,” David replies, mouth full. It shouldn’t be endearing, but it is.

Patrick grabs his own slice and can’t help but groan at the first bite. This pizzeria has the perfect dough-to-sauce ratio. Though Patrick thinks he might eat anything put in front of him at the moment.

“Nice place you have,” David says as he polishes off his second slice, nodding at the living room and the bedroom beyond.  

Patrick can almost hear the unspoken jab: _A step up from Ray’s._ But they seem to be tiptoeing around sensitive topics, and the bed they used to share is most definitely one of them.

“Yeah,” he replies. “It’s getting there.” The walls are a little too bare, the furnishings a little too cold. Six months is too long for him to not have committed to the place already, but deep down, he knows he’s just waiting for the excuse to leave.

Suddenly, he doesn’t seem to have much of an appetite anymore.

“So, I’ll sleep on the couch tonight,” he offers, wiping his face with a napkin. David is staring at him with a look he can’t decipher.

“You literally flew to New York to bring me home,” he clips eventually. “I’m not kicking you out of your bed on top of that.”

“David - ”

“No, no arguing. I’m taking the couch.”

Patrick’s eyebrows fly up at David’s vehement declaration but he’s too tired to argue. And frankly, his bed sounds too inviting. They finish their pizza in relative silence since neither has the patience for small talk and the things they should talk about - the things they _need_ to talk about - are far too big to tackle tonight.

Patrick clears his throat and takes his plate to the sink, washing his hands before pulling extra sheets from the hall closet.

“Do you need pajamas?” He’d seen what David had packed. It wasn’t much, nor was it comfortable. His brain tells him that David probably wasn’t planning on spending much time in bed clothed, but the pizza lurches in his stomach and he shuts that thought down immediately.

“Um, yeah, that might be - that would be good,” David replies and Patrick nods, placing the sheets on the couch and heading into the bedroom to pull an extra set of sweatpants and an old t-shirt out for him. The one he picks at random is one David has worn before. It makes him pause as he traces the faded letters on the soft cotton.

By the time he returns, David is tucking the sheet into the cushions on the couch. “I put the pizza in the fridge." 

“Oh, thanks.” Patrick hands him the clothes and points towards the bathroom. David grabs his bag on the way, but stops in the doorway.

“Do you need to get in there? You know how long my skincare routine takes.”

Patrick chuckles, the tension that had settled in his chest easing for the first time since the plane. “That I do. Let me brush my teeth and it’s all yours.”

David perches on the edge of the bed to wait, and Patrick tries not to think about how good he looks there while he finishes his nightly routine. When he steps out once more, David as barely moved, looking oddly small, hunched over with his hands clasped in his lap.

And it hits Patrick like a freight train that he hasn’t asked him the question he should have led with hours ago.

“Hey,” he murmurs and David looks up. “Are you okay?”

David looks like he’s going to give one of his typical flippant, self-deprecating answers, but something shifts. His shoulders slump and he sighs, like he just can’t be bothered to fake it.

“I am now,” he replies honestly, and Patrick can’t help but move forward and clasp his shoulder, thumb brushing the skin at his neck where the sweater’s collar has been artfully stretched out.

“We’ll get you back to Schitt’s Creek tomorrow.”

David nods and stands, swaying slightly when Patrick drops his hand.

“Thank you, Patrick,” he murmurs. “For everything.”

“Anytime,” he replies, and means it.  

David disappears into the bathroom and Patrick turns the light out, heart pounding. He always wondered what he’d do if given the chance to explain himself to David - if given the opportunity to say all that they didn’t before - but nothing that’s happened in the last 24 hours is even remotely like what he envisioned. He flexes his hand and hisses when his knuckles protest. He probably should have iced them, but he can’t say he regrets what he did. In fact, it might be one of his crowning achievements. If only he had the opportunity to do it again.

The previous night’s lack of sleep catches up with him, though, and he’s out before David even comes out of the bathroom.

But not for long.

Some hours later, the bed dips and something brushes his leg. He blinks to semi-wakefulness and tries to adjust his eyes to the darkened room.

“Mmf, David?” he groggily asks.

“Yeah,” is the whispered reply.

Patrick props himself up on an elbow. “You okay?” He can barely make out the outline of him perched on the edge of the bed again. He’s silhouetted by the moonlight coming in through the windows.

“I haven’t slept well in six months,” David finally whispers into the dark.

Patrick’s heart cleaves in two as he slowly lowers himself back down to the pillow and tries to control his breathing.

“Me neither,” he eventually replies, lifting his arm up and allowing David to burrow into his front, the little spoon to Patrick’s big spoon as if he had never left.  

His breath ghosts over the hair at the back of David’s neck and Patrick can feel him shiver for a moment before settling down. He doesn’t quite know what to do with his arm. It’s laying too tense across David’s middle, as if he doesn’t want to put his full weight on him.

He knows they’re waiting to talk. It’s been a long day that doesn’t need to be made longer by all of the emotional baggage they’re carrying, but there’s something that’s been weighing on him; the sharp point of his question needling him deeper and deeper every time he looks at David’s face.

He lifts his hand up and gently brushes it across the bruise he knows is on David’s cheek.

“Was this consensual?”

David’s breath hitches. “To an extent.”

Patrick wants clarification but if there’s one thing he’s learned after four months of dating David and six of missing him desperately, it’s to bide his time. David will fill the silence.

“I don’t mind getting rough. In fact, I like it - but you need to talk about the rules, the parameters, and he didn’t - we didn’t - ” he’s getting worked up which is the opposite of what Patrick wants.

“Okay, shhhh,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to the back of his neck, while bringing his arm tighter across David’s chest. “It’s okay.”

It’s not. Not in the slightest - the fantasy of hitting James again has turned into first degree murder - but David is here and David is safe and it’s Patrick’s job to make David realize that.

“It’s not my place - not anymore,” he starts, licking his lips, grateful that David can’t see his face, “but you know I’d never let anything happen to you.”

 _You already have,_ the small voice in the back of his head says. But whatever tension had settled in David’s body since the start of their conversation gently seeps out of him.

“I know,” he says, gripping Patrick’s forearm, thumb rubbing in tiny circles. “Goodnight, Patrick.”

“Goodnight, David,” he whispers in reply, lowering his hand so it presses against David’s steadily thumping heart.

It’s the best night’s sleep Toronto’s ever given him.

xxxxxx

David wakes up in an empty bed that is not his own and feeling refreshed for the first time in days. He frowns as he clocks all that’s unfamiliar: the blue sheets and grey comforter, the view outside the window featuring a skyline that’s not New York, the sweatpants and t-shirt he’s - Oh. Correction: the sweatpants and _baseball jersey_ he’s wearing. And not for the first time.

_Patrick._

The previous day comes crashing back and he buries his face in the pillow only to muffle the scream that’s threatening to escape. Mortification, frustration, and elation are a heady combination to feel at God-knows-what-hour before you’ve even had coffee.

The other side of the bed is cool, so Patrick has been up for a while at least. He sees his phone on the bedside table and smiles because of course Patrick plugged it in to charge. The screen tells him it's just after 10am and that he has another text from Stevie. There must have been a vote among his family to make her the designated contact person.

**_alexis is having a fire sale. better get back quick_ **

He snorts and rolls his eyes.

**alexis doesn’t even know what a fire sale is.**

Stevie starts typing back immediately.

**_she’s marked the body milk down to $5.99_ **

**tell her if she values her life, she’ll not touch the price tags.**

**_now u sound like u. welcome back._ **

He really wants to ignore her, but she is the one that reached out to Patrick. With a sigh, he types out his usual send-off.

**best wishes**

Her reply is immediate:

**_warmest regards x_ **

Ugh, she added an x. She never does that.

He swings his legs out of bed and pokes his head into the living room, watching as Patrick, still in his pajamas, sits at the table with a cup of coffee and the phone to his ear.

“Hey, Linda, it’s Patrick,” he says, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah, I’m really sorry to call on a Sunday, but I’m going to have to take the day tomorrow… Family emergency. May need Tuesday as well, but I’ll keep you posted… Thanks, I appreciate it… Bye.”

David doesn’t want Patrick to miss work for him, but a part of him does warm at being lumped under the umbrella of ‘family.’ He disappears into the bathroom before Patrick can notice him lurking and glances at himself in the mirror. Well, hope isn’t entirely lost. The bags under his eyes are significantly diminished and his skin doesn’t look quite so pale or paper-thin. Amazing what wonders water and a solid ten hours of sleep can achieve.

He pokes gently at the bruise still marring his cheek and winces. It’ll take a few more days to truly heal. He’ll have to steal some of Alexis’ foundation in the meantime. Their skin tones don’t match, but it’s close enough.

The knot in his stomach returns as he thinks about the moment from last night.

 _“Was this consensual?”_ Patrick had asked and, David was ashamed to admit it wasn’t even something that crossed his mind to consider. The knot in his stomach tightens because, as much as he can talk about rules and parameters and fucking safe words, he knows that he did not give James permission to do this.

He brushes his teeth and washes his face, not dedicating the normal amount of time to his routine, because he honestly just wants to get back out to Patrick. It’s like he’s in orbit and Patrick is the goddamn sun. He wants to circle him for eternity.

 _Where the hell did_ **_that_ ** _come from?_ David can barely commit to breakfast.

Speaking of, he returns to the living room to find Patrick sliding scrambled eggs onto two plates just as the toast pops.

“Hey,” he says over his shoulder, nodding at the table where an extra cup of coffee and a glass of orange juice sits.

“Good morning,” David replies, impressed. His boyfriends rarely cook for him, let alone his exes.

Patrick places the two plates on the table before grabbing the bacon that David didn’t even see cooling on the counter. “We should probably get on the road soon if we want to get to Schitt’s Creek at a decent hour,” he says, buttering his toast.

David stares at him for a moment, not entirely sure how the man across from him is real. “You really don’t have to drive me back. There’s a bus. I remember it vividly.”

Patrick’s face does that half-smile that he loves so much. “I promised your sister.”

“Oh really? And what did she say?”

Patrick meets his eyes for a moment, a little wistful, a little sad, before looking down at the table. “Bring him home.”

Oh. That’s… something.

“Yes, well,” David starts, clearing his throat through the sudden swell of emotion, “she’s always been demanding.”

Patrick smiles at him in that way he always did when the Rose family hid their sentiment behind snark. He also knows that Patrick isn’t about to let him drive a couple of hours away without sitting down and airing out their grievances. It’s honestly not something he’s looking forward to, but they didn’t do it then. He knows they have to do it now.

Being with Patrick like this has been… nice. More than nice, given the circumstances. They may never get back what they had, but perhaps they can be something else. The concept of friends sounds okay. They had that once (with a healthy dose of teasing flirtation, but he didn’t understand that at the time).

He clues back into the conversation in time to see Patrick looking at him expectantly.

“Sorry, what?”

Patrick smiles patiently, as if he knew David wasn’t listening at all.

“I said I have some arnica gel for your cheek, if you want it. May help with the discoloration.”

“You have arnica gel?” David is impressed. It’s something he’s thought about stocking in the store once he gets the organic medicinal line up and running. Granted, he has to be sober long enough to undertake such a project.

“You try sliding into home without bruising a hip,” Patrick replies and David stares at him blankly.

“I don’t know what that means.”

Patrick barks out a laugh as he stands and takes their plates to the sink. “You didn’t absorb anything from all those baseball games, huh?” he asks as he disappears into the bedroom to grab the gel from the bathroom.

“I didn’t realize there would be a quiz!” he calls after him, jumping slightly as his phone buzzes in his pocket. Expecting another update from Stevie about how Alexis is destroying his way of life, he opens his messages without checking.

He really wishes he had.

**James**   
**_My bed is lonely without you. Come back._ **

He stares at the text, hating that he feels that familiar pull in the pit of his gut. He’s attracted to James, sure. James makes him feel wanted. But David also knows what it’s like to be with a partner that respects him, an equal. Possibly a partner that even loves him. They never said it, but David remembers the open mic night. There’s a reason David hasn’t been able to listen to Tina Turner since the barbecue.

“You okay?” Patrick asks and David jumps again, looking up as he hurriedly shoves his phone back in his pocket.

It vibrates again. David numbly nods.

Patrick narrows his eyes, but doesn’t argue, handing over the arnica. “I’m going to hop in the shower. Bathroom is yours after that. Then we’ll get on the road?”

David nods again, waiting until Patrick is gone before pulling out the phone once more:

**_I’m sorry. It was my hangover talking yesterday._ **

_Bullshit._ The ellipses indicate James is still typing and David waits with a sick sort of dread for the messages to appear:

**_If you have a boyfriend, fine. We never said we were exclusive._ **

**_Could loosen up, though. Fucken mean right hook he has._ **

Despite everything, David can’t help but smile at that.

Yes, yes Patrick does.

xxxxxx

Something’s up.

And it’s not just the trepidation he feels at driving his ex to the town they used to live in to return him to his family and all of the friends they once shared.

David’s been acting weird since that morning - since Patrick walked out of the bathroom to find him staring at his phone with an odd look on his face. At the time, he assumed it was Stevie or Alexis (although Stevie had informed him that the Rose family had been banned from texting David until he was safely behind Schitt’s Creek’s borders), but he can’t imagine Stevie sending something that would have David looking so… lost. It’s the same look he had on his face when James walked into the apartment and asked, _“Who the fuck is this?”_  

It's unsettling. 

They’re closing in on the town, the roads getting rougher and the horizon getting wider. They exchanged the suburbs for farmlands a couple of hours ago, and stopped at a roadside gas station for snacks and a bathroom break. David has his white sunglasses firmly in place and, if Patrick closes his eyes (which he won’t - he’s driving), he can almost pretend they’re back to the way things used to be, en route to a vendor to sample homemade cheese over a glass of wine.

“You’re quiet,” David murmurs after a moment.

“So are you,” Patrick replies.

“We never used to be quiet, did we?”

Patrick swallows hard. “No, no we didn’t.” He thinks of the string of voicemails David left him, voicemails that are still on his phone and smiles.

“What?” David asks, catching his expression out of the corner of his eye.

Patrick shakes his head, but says, “Ciao” just as David turns back.

“Oh my God!” His head whips around so quickly, his sunglasses go flying off his nose. “I thought we agreed never to speak of that again.”

Patrick laughs, but it dies off quickly. “I thought that contract had been terminated,” he quietly replies. He glances over at David with a half-smile that he hopes says lightly, _It is what it is._

Without the glasses, David’s eyes are open and sad and something else he can’t quite pinpoint yet. “It could be renegotiated.”

Ah yes, that’s what it is. It’s what he felt for the first time two days ago: hope.

“Really,” he whispers, unable to stop the smile from spreading on his face.

David nods with that crooked grin he gave the night of his birthday; the night he saved them both by having the courage to lean forward and press his lips to Patrick’s.

Patrick isn’t one to make romantic comedy references, but he knows David will get the rather obscure line: “There are… things to say.”

David’s eyes light up and he bites his lips, turning his head to the window no doubt to hide his emotions. “I may not have absorbed baseball,” he starts, voice rough, “but you clearly absorbed Notting Hill and, really, I think that was the most pressing and important one.”

Patrick laughs again and he thinks - no, he _knows_ \- that this is the most he’s smiled in six months. “We do need to talk, though.”

“I know. Wait - do you want to do that _now_?”

“We don’t have to,” Patrick replies quickly. “Honestly, I’d rather you have my complete and undivided attention so having this conversation while I’m operating a moving vehicle is probably not the best or safest bet.”

“Accurate. When we get home,” David says, and then he freezes, as if just now remembering that his home is no longer Patrick’s.

“Hey,” Patrick murmurs, placing his hand on David’s on the console. “When we get home.”

David gives him that crooked smile again and Patrick’s stomach flips, just like it always does in David’s presence.

Though time alone to talk may be at a premium as they pull into the motel’s parking lot an hour later. The door to Room 6 flies open and David’s parents come bounding out with Mrs. Rose caterwauling as if he’s the Prodigal Son returneth.

“Drive away, drive away now,” David demands, but Patrick turns the car off and pulls the keys out of the ignition.

“Absolutely not.”

“This is horrifying.”

“You mispronounced ‘amazing.”

“Ugh,” David groans, opening the door and letting his mother paw all over him. “I’m fine!” he yells just before the car door slams shut.

Patrick takes his time exiting, not having seen the Rose family since he dropped his keys to the store off with Stevie the day he left town. He honestly has no idea how this reunion is going to go. He supposes he needn’t have worried, though, as Alexis comes barreling out of her room and into his arms.  

“I knew you’d do it, Button,” she whispers, holding him tight around the neck.

He awkwardly pats her on the back but she continues to hold on, sighing deeply as she hooks her chin over his shoulder.

“I’ve missed you.”

He tries to laugh, but he really can’t. “I’ve missed you too,” he finally manages to murmur in reply.

By the time she finally lets go, Mr. Rose seems to be waiting for his turn. He’ll never forget the sight of Johnny Rose looking at him with disappointment as he left the barbecue that day. If you had told him that the same man would be standing in front of him, offering his hand to shake six months later, he would have said you were crazy (and then probably burst into tears). But here Mr. Rose is, holding his hand out and looking like he wants to say so much more than what he actually does:

“Thank you for bringing our boy back.”

Patrick nods and takes his hand, voice thick as he replies, “Anytime. Every time, actually.”

Mr. Rose squeezes his hand once more. “I know that now.”

He looks over his shoulder to find David staring at them, even as he’s attempting to console Mrs. Rose, who’s moved onto full-on sobs by this point while Alexis tries to coax her into taking a Xanax.

“Um, I’m gonna give you all some time.”  

“Where are you going?” David asks, almost panicked, so Patrick holds up his hands placatingly.

“Just for a walk. Thought I’d check out the store if… that’s all right with you.”

“Of course,” David says as if Patrick’s hesitation is the most ridiculous thing he’s heard in the world. “It’s still half-yours.”

Wait. _What?_

“No it’s not,” Patrick says.

“Um, yes it is,” David replies. “I never gave you back your initial investment. Don’t worry, your share is safe.”

Patrick’s mouth moves soundlessly, because he could have _sworn_ he had tied up all of the loose ends concerning the store before he left. He didn’t think to ask for his initial investment back because it honestly wasn’t that much to begin with. His contribution was getting the grant money and utilizing his expertise. He never expected David to still consider the store as _theirs._

Why did he ever let David push him out the door?

But that’s a question for another time.

“I’ll be back,” he promises, smiling as Mrs. Rose blows him a kiss before burying her face in an embroidered handkerchief.

David is still watching him go, like if he takes his eyes off of him, Patrick will disappear. Well, Patrick already knows that he’s going to have to try a hell of a lot harder to get rid of him this time around. 

The town is exactly the same, which is comforting. He’s not sure what he’d do if he rolled up to find a high-rise in place of Cafe Tropical. He stops on the corner, just staring for a moment at the place he poured so much of his life into, that swooped in when he so desperately needed saving and helped him find himself for the first time ever.

That he left physically but not emotionally.

“Patrick?”

He turns to find Jocelyn outside the Cafe, a baby carrier strapped to her chest. Right - he had forgotten she was pregnant when he left. And there’s proof of his time away, right there in front of him.

“Hi, Jocelyn,” he says, leaning in to give her an awkward hug around the baby. “Who’s this?”

“This is Roland Jr,” she replies, moving the blanket out of the way so Patrick can take a look.

He’s… honestly a lot cuter than he expected the progeny of Roland Schitt to be. Good job to Jocelyn’s genes for winning out.  

“He’s adorable,” he says (honestly, thank God).

“Thanks. What - uh, what are you doing here?” Her tone is overly chipper, like she’s trying so hard to be both polite and yet investigative, and he winces.

“Oh, you know, just came back for a visit.” David’s issues are no one’s business but his own.

“Things are well in the big city?”

_No, they’re miserable._

“Yeah, they’re - they’re good. But it’s, uh,” he stares at the store - so close and yet so far, “but it’s good to be back.”

“Right! Well, I’ll leave you to it.” She pats his arm and heads down the road.

He jogs across the street before anyone else can stop him, pausing to breathe for a moment before he clasps the familiar handle and listens for the telltale ding of the bell that he still sometimes hears in his dreams. Stevie must have been watching for him because she's in his arms before he can even get fully through the door, and he grunts as he catches her, wheezing a bit as her arms choke just a bit too hard.

“Good to see you, too, Stevie.”

She pulls away and slaps him on the arm - hard.

“Ow! What was that for?! I brought him back!”

“But you left in the first place!”

“He asked me to - No, you know what? I’m not having this argument with you again.”

And it’s true - this is a fight they’ve thoroughly beaten into submission via text with no clear winner.

“Fine,” she snarks, crossing her arms over her chest, but fighting a smile. “Well, go ahead. Look around. I know you’re dying to.”

She’s got him there. He glances around, expecting David to almost have gone wild in his absence, but it looks remarkably the same. There are a few new products on the shelves and a new addition to the wall decor in the form of a framed open mic night poster, which is…

Patrick doesn’t even know what that is.

Stevie catches him looking at it and smiles smugly. “Yeah, that went up the week after you left.”

“Oh,” he breathes, stepping closer. It’s been placed beneath the business license, whose corporate frame is still proudly on display.

After nearly a year of knowing one another and ten months of loving him, David Rose continues to surprise him.

Stevie’s phone chimes and she swipes it, snorting at whatever she reads on the screen. “So,” she clips, “how miserable are you in Toronto?”

He can’t help but laugh. “Very.”

“You’re both idiots.”

“So you’ve said."

“But do you believe me now?”

He slides his hands in his pockets and studies the carefully stacked lip balms. “I never didn’t.”

Stevie’s phone chimes again and Patrick finally nods at it.

“Is that Alexis?”

“Of course it is.”

Patrick hums. “How is he?”

“Being suffocated by Moira’s tears apparently.” She types something back before focusing on him once more. “You could stay, you know.”  

“I have a life there, Stevie. I have an apartment and a job.”

“That doesn’t sound like much of a life.” She bites her lip and tucks her hair behind her ears, which she does when she’s nervous. He’s not sure when he started noticing that. “Have you talked?”

He shrugs. “A little. There wasn’t much time between the flight and the detox and the punching of the boyfriend.”

Her eyes go wide and she hops on the counter, pulling an open wine bottle from beneath it and unpopping the cork. “Tell me _everything._ ”

xxxxxx

He just wants a nap, but his mother won’t stop crying. He can hear her in the other room while his father tries to talk her down from the ledge with the promise of another pill. He missed Schitt’s Creek (which he’ll die before admitting), but he did not miss his mother’s histrionics.

His phone buzzes again and he makes a grab for it on the off-chance it’s Patrick. Of course it’s fucking not.

**_I’ll be better. Let me make it up to you. A grand gesture, if you will._ **

“Oh fuck off,” he mutters, deleting the text from James.  

“Rude, David,” Alexis replies, where she lounges on her bed scrolling through her phone, which seems to be blowing up more than his.

“Oh my God, who are you texting?”

“Stevie.”

“She’s supposed to be running my store, not texting my sister. I’m paying her.”

Her eyes narrow knowingly. “Are you?”

“... Yes?”

But Alexis just hums and goes back to her phone. “Oh my God, Patrick punched your boyfriend?!”

David’s jaw drops. “He’s not my boyfriend! And how do you know that?”

“Stevie,” she replies like the cat that got the canary.

“And how does _she_ know that?”

Alexis bites her lips and tries to wink at him, but fails spectacularly.

He doesn’t like the fact that Alexis and Stevie have gotten close - Stevie was always _his_ friend - but he supposes it serves him right. He could only abandon her so many times before she needed somebody to bitch about him to. He’s sure Alexis was only too willing to oblige.

By the time he glances up from his little pity party, Alexis is looking at him seriously. Which in itself is incredibly unnerving.

“David, you need an intervention,” she says, swinging her legs over the side of the bed and folding her hands in her lap, as if she saw a video describing how best to sit during an intervention and is copying it step by step. “The fact that your store hasn’t gone completely bankrupt is a modern day miracle. You, in fact, are _not_ paying Stevie - or me, by the way. We are helping out of the goodness of our hearts while you go gallivanting to New York on your fuckboy’s dime.”

“Wow,” he blurts. He honestly didn’t think Alexis had it in her. Then again, she did burn his Balenciaga harness booties in a fit of rage because he didn’t wire her money to Turks and Caicos fast enough. But that was another life and they were different people.

Somewhat.

She reaches out and places a hand on his knee. His first instinct is to shake it off, but she’s looking like she did when she stood in front of him and said, _“David, will you please give me a hug?”_ so he lets it stay.

“Why are you doing this?” she asks.

He wants to tell her to be more specific, but he knows what she means. He shrugs and tries to laugh, but it's choked. “Because it numbs the pain.”

Alexis squeezes his knee. “You know, if you asked him to stay, maybe you wouldn’t hurt so much.”

“Patrick has a fiancée,” he tries to argue, but he knows it’s not true now. His go-to excuse has turned to smoke. So why the fuck is he still in this shitty motel?

“No, he doesn’t,” Alexis says. “He never did. At least not while he was here.”

“How do _you_ know that?”

“Because I saw how broken that Button was when you made him leave.”

“I didn’t _make_ him do anything!” David insists, but Alexis holds her hand up, halting his argument.

“You asked,” she says simply. Softly. “And that was all you had to do.”

 _“Was this consensual?”_ That was Patrick’s question the night before.

David doesn’t know what it’s like for someone to put his needs before their own.

 _Yes you do,_ that voice says. Patrick’s not perfect, he knows that and Patrick himself would be the first to admit it, but even the one time he was selfish, it wasn’t because he was trying to hurt David. He was trying to start fresh with him. David can see that now, now that the initial pain of betrayal has cleared. Sure, Patrick was new to this and didn’t want to fuck it up and yet did so in the process, but his intentions were good.

 _Patrick_ is good.

_“You know, when you kissed me… that-that felt like my first time. You know, all the things that, uh, you’re supposed to feel, I-I felt them. Last night.”_

_“Well, if we’re being honest with each other, this is sort of like my first time, too. I mean, it’s not. I’ve kissed, like, a thousand people, but nobody that I… cared about. Or respected, or thought was nice. So, in a way, it’s like we’re both starting something new.”_

_“Thank you, David.”_

By the time he looks up at his sister, she’s observing him like she knows _exactly_ what just went through his head.

“Where is he?” he rasps.

Alexis side-eyes him. “Where do you think?”

He’s out of bed and in Patrick’s car in less than a minute with Alexis hot on his heels, yelling at their parents through the door that they’re going to “get the girl. Boy. Whatever, you know what I mean.”

In moments like these, he’s grateful that Patrick is predictable. He lowers the visor and the keys fall into his lap, and it takes them no time at all to literally skid to a halt outside the Apothecary.

“Tire burn, David,” Alexis mutters, but follows him up to the door anyway, where - there’s a note in the window that reads, “BACK IN 15 MINUTES.”

“Fuck,” he mutters, glancing around, but there’s really only one other place they could go.

“Cafe!” Alexis barks like she’s a bit role in some FBI movie, but David can’t deal with her film aspirations at the moment.

“Yes, I’m aware,” he snaps, already halfway across the street. He pulls open the door in time to see his parents’ car come to a stop outside because, yes, _that’s_ what this situation needs: more Roses.

He spots Patrick and Stevie sitting in a booth like the traitors they are, and he must look terrifying because Patrick’s eyes go wide and he’s immediately on his feet as Stevie looks over her shoulder, trying not to laugh.

“Yes, hi,” he snarks in her direction before turning to Patrick, who warily asks: 

“You okay?”

“I need to talk to you,” he blurts out, rubbing his sweaty palms on his jeans and wishing he could blot his hairline. He can practically feel the shine on his face.

“Okay?” Patrick responds, looking more than a little confused (and concerned) at David’s manic behavior.

And of course, his parents choose that moment to come tumbling into the Cafe.  

“David, darling, you ran out so quickly!” his mother trills. “We were so worried about you.”

“Everything all right, son?”

“Fine,” he bites out, but Patrick’s hand on his arm calms him.

“Hey, we can talk. Whenever, wherever,” he says.

_“Can we talk tomorrow?”_

_“We can talk whenever you’d like.”_

David shakes the memory from his mind and ignores the looks he’s getting from Ronnie and Bob in the next booth over.

Patrick steps closer and tilts his head forward, “Do you want to go to the store?”

But before he can respond, Twyla is calling out to him from behind the counter. “Welcome back, David! I knew you wouldn’t disappear forever like my mom’s third husband!”

“Okay, everyone, I know you mean well, but can you just shut up for a second?!” he yells, arms flapping and silence blissfully descends. 

For a moment. 

“Even me?” a voice says from the door and David turns to find James standing there in all his glory.

“Oh you’ve got to be _fucking_ kidding me,” he groans. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

James shrugs. (Can someone shrug smugly?) “It’s a short flight and there’s a private airstrip less than an hour away.”

Stevie stands and grips Patrick’s arm, as if holding him back. He grips her back just as fiercely and David feels such a surge of love for both of them that his eyes well.

“David, aren’t you going to introduce us to your friend?” his dad says and no, nope that will not be happening.

“I won’t, actually, because he was just leaving.”

“Was I?”

“Yes,” David replies, breath hitching. James must smell weakness in him because he moves further into the Cafe, as if stalking his prey. David backs away and Patrick moves ever so slightly in front of him, meeting his gaze and silently saying with only a look that he’ll step in if he’s wanted, but this fight is David’s and David’s alone.

Thankfully, the lunch rush is over and it’s just friendly faces. Still, he’d rather not have this many witnesses to his humiliation.  

“But we have such a good time in New York,” James cajoles. “You can’t tell me you want to stay here.”

“He does, actually,” Alexis snaps, crossing her arms and standing her ground. David doesn’t think he’s ever loved her as much as he does in this moment.

“And you are?”

“His sister.”

“Ah yes, the sister,” James replies, before going down the line. “The mother,” he says, pointing at Moira, before saying, “the father,” at Johnny. “You’re an unknown” he mutters to Stevie, before focusing on Patrick. “And then we get to the boyfriend.”

“Yes,” David says, chin held high despite the odd look everyone who knows their history is giving them. Everyone except Patrick, who steps just slightly closer.

“Really? You’re leaving me for him?” James mocks and Stevie clears her throat.

“Hey, nice shiner. Where’d you get that?”

“Yes, where did you get that, James?” David prompts, but James remains silent, glaring at Patrick like he could kill him with a glance.

“And where did he get his?” his mother says next, nodding at the bruise on David’s face. The room goes deathly silent.

David can practically feel Patrick vibrating with tension next to him, and this time, it’s Moira who places a placating hand on his back, which is huge seeing as she seemed to be the first one to write him off.

James scoffs and throws up his hands. “Well, I can see my grand gesture is unwanted. Whatever.” Then his eyes narrow and his expression gets mean. “You were a shit lay anyway.”

“That’s because you weren’t him,” David fires back, nodding at Patrick whose face immediately flushes with a mixture of embarrassment and pride.

Everyone stands in the cafe, chairs scraping against linoleum, and he cannot even comprehend the fact that everyone has leapt to his defense. Despite his utter assholery of the last few months, he still has a veritable Schitt’s Creek army at his disposal.

“James?” he says, stepping forward and brushing his hand down Patrick’s back as he passes him. “Gargle cyanide. Or I’ll let him have at you. And as entertaining as I’m sure that would be for _all_ of us, I’d really rather he not spend the night in jail. So kindly fuck very much right off.”

James glares at him for a moment, before muttering, "Sod this," and turning towards the door. 

“Buh bye,” Alexis calls after him, topping it off with a little wave, just to add insult to injury.

The door slams behind James, and Patrick immediately turns to David.

“We need to talk.”  

“That’s what I’ve been saying - ”

“No, now,” he replies and he looks angry and desperate and damn near broken so David just nods, allowing Patrick to take his hand and lead him across the street so, so gently despite how keyed up he is. The bell over the door jingles as Patrick shuts the door quickly, flipping the sign to closed and pacing the length of the store.

“Are you okay?”

“No, I’m not, I’m not okay. David, I was ready to _murder_ him.”  

“Yeah, well, get in line,” he tries to joke, but it falls flat. Patrick looks ready to shake out of his skin.

“I don’t hate many people, David. I’d like to think I’m a good person, but my God, I hate him.”

“Well…” David begins, slowly approaching Patrick and gently taking hold of his shoulders to keep him grounded, “we don’t have to deal with him anymore.”

“Promise?” he asks and his voice breaks. The fact that Patrick is so destroyed over something that’s happened to _David_ just floors him.

“I promise,” he whispers, opening his arms and allowing Patrick to crash into them, hands gripping the back of his sweater and holding tight.

“You were so good back there,” he murmurs, running his hand up and down David’s spine.

He hums. “It wasn’t quite a right hook, but I’d like to think it got the job done.”

Patrick chuckles, “Gargle cyanide?’ Yeah, I think the message was clear.”

“Not one of my better ones, but I was caught unawares.”

“Just for the record,” Patrick begins, pulling away so he can look into his face, “you’re not a shit lay.”

“I was with him,” he replies and, after a careful moment, he reveals, “My heart wasn’t in it.”

Patrick's eyes soften and he tilts his head, studying him. David feels completely flayed open. 

“David,” he eventually breathes, nosing along his jaw before burying his face in his neck and pressing a kiss to his pulse point.

“Come home,” he whispers wetly, bracing himself as Patrick tenses in his arms.

“You’re the one who’s been leaving lately,” he murmurs against his skin after a moment.

“You left first,” David reminds.

“You asked me to.”

 _“And that was all you had to do,”_ Alexis’ voice unhelpfully echoes in his mind.

He swallows hard, but it still doesn’t stop the sob that’s been threatening to escape ever since he walked into the Cafe from coming out. “Biggest mistake of my life.”

Patrick pulls away and David can see his eyes are just as wet. “I love you. I’ve loved you since, ‘Hey David, it’s Patrick.”

David laughs as more tears spill onto his cheeks. “I love you, too.” And he surprises himself by realizing how not scary that was. “No more secrets. No more omissions.”

Patrick nods. “No more. Our problem was we needed to talk. We didn’t talk then, about our past, about our future, about anything and it ruined us. I refuse to do that a second time.”

“Kiss me,” David demands.

“Gladly,” Patrick gets out before he’s crashing their lips together and knocking over a display of toner.

Neither pays it much mind. They can clean it up in the morning. 

After all, they'll both still be there. 

xxxxxx

It’s like slotting that final puzzle piece into place - something shifts in him and he feels complete.

Patrick sinks into the kiss, gripping David around the waist as his hand comes up to cup David’s cheek. He wants to sob at how perfect it feels, at how overwhelmed he is because of how much he’s missed this, but he stays in the moment, opening his mouth to nip David’s lower lip eliciting a groan from him.

Patrick wants to hitch his leg up over his hip and press him back into the wall, like the good old days, but too much time has passed and David is shaking like a leaf in his arms, despite the fact that his hands are traveling down Patrick’s back to grip his ass.

“Wait, wait, stop, sorry,” David murmurs and Patrick immediately pulls away, hands up, breathing hard.

“I’m so sorry, it was too much.”

“No, it was perfect,” David assures. “I just - I need to get tested again before clothes start coming off and my entire family is still at the Cafe probably waiting to hear whether or not we’ve made up or not, so this is not the ideal moment for…” he trails off and gestures obviously between them.

Patrick looks at him with amused fondness. “And…?” he prompts because he knows there’s something else.

“And I think I might need to… take things slow.”

God, he loves this man.

Patrick nods. “I can do slow.”

David backs away and fans at his face as he starts to tear up again. “It’s just - I haven’t been very good lately - ”

“David, you don’t need to explain.”

“Except, I think that I do.” He stops and swallows, but firmly stands his ground. “I haven’t been taking very good care of myself, and I know you will, I _know_ that.” Patrick nods in case he needs the affirmation. “But - I need to take care of myself, too.”

“Yes,” Patrick whispers. “You do. You’re far too important to too many people to not do that.”

“Are you included in that group of people?” David asks as he steps forward and slides his arms over Patrick’s shoulders, pulling him in only too willingly.

“I’m the self-appointed leader.” He grins and David smiles. 

“Are you now?” 

“Yes, and I take that job very seriously.”

“Oh I know. I could ask James for references.” Patrick frowns at the mention of James and David winces. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have brought him up.”

“It’s fine. We’ll file him under the ‘Exes.’ We’re talking about these things now, remember?”

David nods and rests his head on Patrick’s shoulder. They’ve started to sway in the middle of the store, despite the fact that there’s no music.

“Do you ever talk to Rachel?”

Patrick starts a little at the question, but it shouldn’t surprise him that David brought her up. She’s sort of the catalyst for why they’re here in the first place.

“Not since just after the barbecue. We had a long talk about why I was here. And who I was with. And who I am now.”

“You should call her.”

“What?” He does pull away at that so he can look into David’s face, confusion etched in his own.

“You should call her,” he repeats. “She was a big part of your life for over fifteen years. It’s not her fault we broke up.”

And that one hurts. He knows it’s not her fault, but he’s still been punishing her, maybe unknowingly, for her role in it.

“It’s not really yours either,” David assures, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “I didn’t give you a chance to explain. As Stevie says, we’re both idiots.”

“We are.”

David presses another kiss, this time to the tip of his nose. “So you’ll call her?”

“I’ll think about it,” he replies, already knowing he’ll probably text her by week’s end. She does deserve better than what he gave her.

David sighs and rests his head on Patrick’s shoulder once more. “I think I’m over New York. For a while, at least.”

“I didn’t really see much of it.”

“That was your first time there?”

Patrick hums.

“We should go. Not now, not for a bit, but we should definitely go.”

He smiles so hard his face hurts. “Okay.”

David tenses for a moment and, when he says what he says next, Patrick knows why. “Speaking of big cities, you probably need to get home.”

Patrick can’t accurately describe what he feels at the suggestion that he leave, but it’s visceral. “You said it yourself. I am home.”

They stop swaying.

David looks petrified. “Yeah?”

“Well there’s a job to quit and a lease to break, which could take some time.”

David swallows and plays with Patrick’s collar. “Are you sure? That’s - those are big changes.”

Patrick cups his face in his hands and presses a soft, chaste kiss to his lips. “David Rose, I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life. I want to come home. If you’ll have me.”

David laughs, even as a tear splashes on his cheek. “I’ll have you.”

Patrick pulls him in for a slow, sensual kiss, full of promises and pardons and healing. He knows they’ll have to leave this bubble in a bit because if they don’t, Stevie and Alexis will definitely come banging on the door. But he relishes it for just a moment more, holding David a little tighter, making silent vows to himself and to the man in his arms to be better this time around.

When he answered Stevie’s text two nights ago, he didn’t realize that he was the one who would end up getting saved.

He should have known better.

David Rose does continue to surprise him, in all the best and brightest ways.

David pulls away and Patrick chases his lips in a store they created together.

“Come home,” he breathes and Patrick nods, cupping the back of David’s head and bringing him in once more.

 

 

Six weeks later, he does.


	4. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A weekend in New York.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notice that updated rating, kiddos.

They have two anniversaries now. 

The first is David’s birthday. 

The second is the day Patrick returned to Schitt’s Creek and they started over. Well, not entirely. They picked back up where they left off with a deeper understanding of who they were, both individually and together. Patrick’s never felt love like this in his life. Truth be told, it’s a little overwhelming. Terrifying, too, but gratifying above all. That David Rose is his seems to be the universe’s biggest goof, because how did Patrick Brewer get so damn lucky, but if it’s a mistake, it’s one he’s not about to correct. 

They don’t talk about the six months they were apart. It’s still too fresh and raw, though they’ve been much better about talking in general. Their pasts are out in the open. Their hurts and insecurities are a burden shared by both of them now. But those six months… 

The memory of David opening the door in the state he was in is still enough to bring Patrick to tears. They’ll talk about it, they will, but they’re a little too reluctant to let go of the honeymoon phase at the moment. 

It’s been two months since he last flew to New York. Since a text from Stevie sent him on the most emotional journey of his life that had an ending far better than anything he could have hoped for. To be perfectly honest, he hadn’t expected to be going back so soon, but it’s David’s birthday and they want a weekend to themselves, away from Schitt’s Creek and her nosy inhabitants and two-star restaurants. 

It’s also their anniversary. Or it was. It would have been one year this Saturday if they both hadn’t been complete morons, so they’re heading to New York to rewrite their history with her, and maybe each other, a bit.

David had just one condition: they don’t go downtown. 

Patrick is more than amenable to that. 

xxxxxx

“Babe, wake up. We’re landing.” 

David groans and blinks his eyes open, sad to see that the dregs of his mid-flight bloody mary have been cleared away. “You couldn’t have let me sleep through that horror show?” 

“I figured the scream you’d let out when the wheels suddenly hit the tarmac wouldn’t jive with my efforts to keep you from getting arrested by TSA.” 

David scrunches his nose but mutters, “Fair,” eyes lighting up when Patrick hands over the bloody mary he saved from the flight attendant’s grabby hands. 

They had worked half a day in the store, shutting early to drive to Toronto and catch an evening flight out. He still had no idea where they were staying, which was slightly terrifying given that he’d put their accommodations in the hands of a man who didn’t know how to properly pronounce Houston Street. 

He downs the rest of his drink as the landing gear descends and looks over to Patrick only to find he’s already put his hand on the armrest for David to hold. He remembers squeezing that hand two months ago and holding his breath until he got an answering squeeze in return - the first indication that, perhaps, just maybe, they might eventually be okay. 

“I love you,” he whispers, the surprise he’s feeling at blurting that out evident on Patrick’s face as well. It’s rare for him to initiate those words (those wonderful, insane words). 

“I love _you_ ,” Patrick replies, leaning forward and gently knocking his head against David’s as the plane’s wheels touch down far more smoothly than they have any right to. 

They grab their bags from the overhead bin, not having bothered to check anything seeing as they’re only there for the weekend. David complains about his fellow passengers' inability to disembark in a timely manner, and Patrick indulges him, only offering a nudge with his hip or a pinch to his side when he gripes not as quietly as he should. 

LaGuardia is a hellhole, but Patrick insisted they fly into this airport as opposed to Newark to avoid downtown, per David’s request. He supposes he’ll suffer through this construction site with airplanes for such consideration. 

He’s too busy getting into the cab when Patrick tells the driver their destination. He knows they’re on a budget - Patrick’s job in Toronto paid him more than the store, but David wasn’t about to let him pay for _their_ trip - so he’s expecting a hotel far below his usual New York standards. Still, his breath catches when they cross the Queensboro Bridge, sun just starting its slow descent, silhouetting that unforgettable skyline in rich oranges, pinks, and yellows. At least they’re staying in Manhattan, he thinks, frowning when the cab starts to inch its way towards Central Park. 

Friday evening traffic is horrendous but it gives him the opportunity to watch Patrick watch the city. He’s like a little boy, staring out the window at the buildings reaching into the sky, not letting go of his hand even to point something ridiculous out he spots on every other street corner. 

David inhales deeply when they reach the park - he loves the park, even though he hardly ever visited it when he lived here. He was too busy, it was too far away, it was too… outside for his sartorial standards. 

The cab exits on the other side, making a left down Central Park West, headed for Columbus Circle. He’s expecting a Hilton Garden Inn or a Marriott Courtyard if they’re lucky - 

Which is why he’s so totally floored when the cab makes an abrupt right and pulls to a stop outside The Empire Hotel. 

“Patrick, what...?” he starts to ask, but Patrick cuts him off with a kiss to his temple. 

“Happy birthday,” he murmurs, pressing another kiss as the driver pops the trunk and the doorman opens the door. 

“Welcome to The Empire Hotel,” he greets with a friendly smile. 

David is still too shell-shocked to adequately answer, glancing around at the square across the way and Lincoln-fucking-Center lit up in all her glory. 

“Surprised?” Patrick asks, sidling up to him and admiring the view as well. 

“Um, yeah,” he breathes, watching as the famous fountain spouts water into the sky. He can just make out the Chagall murals through the Metropolitan Opera’s massive windows. “You did all this?” 

“I booked a hotel. Not exactly nuclear physics,” Patrick teases, getting an arm around David’s waist and steering him towards the door. 

“That I don’t think was in our budget.” 

He feels Patrick shrug as they follow the porter with their bags. “Wanted to do something nice.” 

“Anything with you is something nice,” David replies. And it’s true. Hiking up a mountain with Patrick might even be nice. 

Well, on second thought, maybe not. 

“You know, in all my years of living in New York, I’ve never actually been in here,” he says as the doors slide open. 

“Really? Seems like you’d fit right in,” Patrick replies, and once his eyes adjust to the low-level lighting, David knows why. 

The floor is black and white marble, mirroring the pattern on a sweater he knows he packed in his bag, and there are zebra-printed throw pillows on plush brown leather couches. He immediately wants to sink into them with a nice glass of cabernet or a tumbler of scotch. Or just Patrick. He’s intoxicating in and of himself. 

He slides his hand in Patrick’s back pocket and squeezes as they make their way up to the check-in counter. “Ya done good, honey,” he murmurs, delighting as the tips of Patrick’s ears turn pink. 

Patrick clears his throat and offers his name to the woman behind the desk smiling at them knowingly. David basks in the attention. If he could walk around New York with a neon flashing sign that pointed at Patrick and said, _He’s mine_ , he would. He doubts his boyfriend would appreciate the attention, though. 

Well, the _added_ attention. David’s already clocked two appreciative glances from women in the lobby and three from men all tossed in Patrick’s direction. 

“Room 914,” the clerk says, offering them another knowing smile, which David meets with a cheeky grin. 

He spends the ride up in the elevator plastered to Patrick’s side, nuzzling his nose into his neck and smelling his cologne. It’s not something he wears every day, only for special occasions, and David could kick himself for not realizing something was up when he first smelled it on him that morning. 

“Thank you for this,” he whispers, pressing a kiss to Patrick’s temple and feeling him smile beneath his lips. 

“My pleasure.” 

 _Indeed it will be_ , David agrees. 

They get out on the 9th floor and find 914. Patrick inserts the key and pushes the door open as David looks around. The rooms aren’t enormous - it is a boutique hotel after all - but it’s just what they need: a king-sized bed, a walk-in, marbled shower with rainfall shower-head, and a perfect view of Lincoln Square. 

David drops his bag on the floor at the foot of the bed and face plants in the Egyptian cotton sheets. 

“God, yes,” he groans, earning a chuckle from Patrick who swats at his ass. “Don’t start something you don’t intend to finish,” he admonishes, turning his head and grinning as Patrick flushes again. It’s the kind of comment someone who wants to take things slow probably shouldn’t be making, but he can’t help it. 

Patrick’s been perfect, letting David take the lead on everything. He whispers, “Okay?” every time he’s about to explore new skin and he doesn’t move until David explicitly says, “Okay” in return. 

They haven’t gotten to where they were before yet, and sometimes David wants nothing more than to pin Patrick on his back and ride him hard, but he’s mostly just eternally grateful for the man currently staring at him like he’s a piece of rare art instead of a piece of rare meat, like so many others have done. 

He holds out his hand for Patrick to take, but before he can, a knock sounds at the door and they both frown at it. 

“Did you order something?” Patrick asks and David shakes his head. Patrick goes to open the door, revealing a man in a smart hotel outfit, holding an envelope in his hand. 

“Good evening. Mr. Rose?” the porter asks, but Patrick gestures behind him. 

“No, he’s right here.” 

David pretends he doesn’t get a warm feeling in his stomach at Patrick being called “Mr. Rose” as he stands and wanders over. 

“This was left for you at the concierge,” the porter says, handing him the envelope with his name on it. 

“Oh. Thank you.”

The porter bids them goodbye as David tears it open, jaw dropping and heart racing as two tickets fall into his hand. 

“Holy shit,” he murmurs. 

“What is it?” Patrick asks, hooking his chin over David’s shoulder so he can get a look. “Holy shit,” he repeats. “Do those say ‘Hamilton’ on them?” 

“I think they do,” David breathes, handing Patrick the tickets so he can look at the note folded up with them. “Happy birthday, darling. Love, Mummy, Dad, and Alexis,” he reads. “Um…” He grabs Patrick’s wrist so he can look at them again. 

“David, did your whole family just go in for tickets to the most impossible show to get tickets to?”

“I think they did,” he says, already wondering what the catch is. 

“There’s no catch,” Patrick murmurs, reading his mind and pressing a kiss to his neck with a smile.

“You’ve met my family.” 

“Indeed, I have,” he replies, mouthing up to his ear and gently biting his lobe. 

David groans and leans back against him, argument flitting out of his mind as he lets Patrick pull him tighter against his front. “I didn’t realize Broadway got you so hot and bothered.” 

“When are we going?” he whispers, nipping at the juncture where neck meets shoulder.  

“Tomorrow night,” David nearly whimpers. 

“This is a very nice birthday present.” 

David gasps as Patrick’s hand, the one not holding the tickets, ghosts along his stomach to the top of his jeans. “It really is.” 

“Okay?” Patrick whispers, hand hovering exactly where it is.

“God, yes,” David replies, cursing when another knock abruptly sounds at the door. 

Patrick snorts, but takes a moment to gather himself, stepping away from David’s back and heading over to answer it. Another porter stands there with yet another envelope. 

“Mr. Brewer?” 

“Yeah, that’s me,” he replies, smiling in that charmingly flushed way that definitely says, _No I didn’t just almost have my hand down my boyfriend’s pants a second ago._

The porter hands over the envelope and leaves as David grumbles, “They could have coordinated better.” 

Patrick raises an eyebrow at David as he neatly tears it open. Another two tickets, these two larger and blue, not yellow, spill into his hand. “Oh my God,” he breathes. 

“What?” 

Patrick hands the tickets over as he reads the note: “Happy Anniversary! Love, Stevie and Ted.”

David stares at the picture on the small piece of card stock of a baseball player he doesn’t know in a uniform with questionable use of pinstripes, and it’s clear that on Sunday afternoon, he and Patrick will be watching the Blue Jays play the Yankees from the Delta Sky360 Suite. 

“Okay, this is weird,” he says after a moment.  

“It’s not weird! It’s nice. They’re happy for us!” Patrick argues, only too eager to accept the, frankly, outlandish outpouring of support for their union.

“Which is _why_ it’s _weird._ My family isn’t nice! Our friends aren’t _nice_!” 

“Ted is nice.” 

“Ted is Ted,” David rebuts and, after a moment, Patrick agrees. “Well, looks like you’re going to a baseball game on Sunday.” 

Patrick raises an eyebrow and stalks closer, wrapping his arms around David’s waist. “Um, _we’re_ going to a baseball game on Sunday, babe.” 

“I thought the point of an anniversary gift was that it was supposed to benefit both participants of the relationship.” 

“There will be cheese fries.” 

David devotes all of three seconds to making it look like he’s weighing his options before answering.

“Fine.” 

xxxxxx

They’re late for dinner by the time they keep their hands to themselves long enough to change clothes. Knowing they’d be getting to the city on the later side, Patrick hadn’t wanted to stray too far from the area, so he made a reservation at an Italian place called Fiorello’s just across the square. He booked it for 8pm, letting the pre-show crowds heading to the opera or the ballet thin out. 

Still, by the time the surprises finally stopped knocking on their door, they were so keyed up, David barely had to slip his hand into Patrick’s pants before he was coming in his underwear with David not too far behind. He feels like he should be embarrassed, but he’s not. After six months of no sex and barely even any self-love because his libido seemed to be hardwired to one David Rose, he was just so damn relieved to be back in this place with the man he loves. 

This place of loving looks and teasing touches and slow, blissful torture.  

He had given his company five weeks’ notice, three more than they contractually required. His boss, Linda, was sad to see him go, but understood when he explained. She had once (jokingly) asked him why he was working such late hours instead of going out and having a life, and he had given her a brutally honest answer. 

His life was back in Schitt’s Creek. Anything else just didn’t measure up. 

Linda had rightfully assumed there was a _someone,_ and one night at an after-work happy hour, he ended up in a booth with her and shared the whole sorry story. He blamed the beers for the tears in his eyes, but she looked at him with nothing but compassion. 

“If it’s meant to be, you’ll find each other again,” she had said. 

He was still too bruised to believe in “meant to be” but he nodded, mentally thanking her for taking his unprofessionalism in stride. 

When he got back to Toronto and told her that he was returning to David, she smiled broadly. In fact, she was the first person he told, other than his parents. 

He had been wary of that call - after everything fell apart, he had to tell someone and his mother seemed a cheaper option than therapy. His parents needed to know anyway. They needed to know that this move to yet another city was not him running away. It was him trying to respect the wishes of the most important person in his life. The most important person in his life whom he’d just lost, possibly for good. 

They were nothing if not supportive. _Overwhelmingly_ supportive, in fact, to finally know why their baby boy had picked up and moved to Schitt’s Creek of all places. Why the tone of his voice shifted one day from melancholy to cautiously hopeful. And another day from hopeful to downright ecstatic. And yet another day from ecstatic to nothing, because Patrick couldn’t call them for a solid two weeks after he and David broke up, unable to even force the fake cheer he had mastered at the start. 

And so he told them everything, through sobs that turned to whimpers that turned to hiccups that turned to sighs. And then wondered why he didn’t do so in the first place. 

With his notice given to Linda, he began to pack. He reached out to Ray to get some apartment listings, which he shared with David for his tempered approval or vehement veto (it was always one or the other, never an in-between). Patrick went back to Schitt’s Creek that first weekend to look at the places on the approved list, finally picking an open concept one bedroom. David came to him in Toronto every weekend after that, helping him pack what meager belongings he’d gathered, while Alexis and Stevie watched the store.

Weekends were all they had during that month and a half. They texted and called and FaceTimed in the interim, but by the time he pulled up to his new apartment with the movers on his back bumper, David hopped up from where he sat on the front steps waiting, bounded down the path, and gave him such a violent hug, Patrick tumbled back against the car in his effort to brace his impact. 

For someone who’s felt like he’s been bracing for impact his whole life, it feels remarkably like coming home. 

It’s nearly 8:15pm by the time they actually stroll into the restaurant, all apologies to the maitre’d who waives them off with a gesture at the tables that have just cleared to catch a curtain across the street. It’s wood-paneled with a bar along the left side and a giant antipasto bar in the center. The right side and back are full of tables and booths with low lighting and rich history. 

They’re shown to a booth tucked away in a corner and handed menus and a wine list. David immediately orders a bottle of the Super Tuscan, knowing what Patrick likes, and is only too eager to dive into the focaccia that is placed on the table. 

“I’m famished,” he groans and Patrick smirks. 

“I’m shocked.” 

David narrows his eyes, even as he pours the olive oil onto his bread plate. “Someone made me work up an appetite.” 

Patrick flushes, remembering his less-than-stellar performance. “Land speed record,” he mutters. 

“Hey,” David murmurs, leaning forward with his focaccia hovering, dropping olive oil back on the plate. “I’m not complaining. Just like Stella, we’ll get our groove back.” 

Patrick laughs at that just as the waiter returns with the bottle of wine. They split burrata and a choice of three vegetables from the antipasto bar, before Patrick picks a bolognese and David settles on seafood fettuccine. 

Not to oversell it, but it’s _divine._ The frankly obscene groans coming from both of them are not fit for public consumption. The wine doesn’t last long so they order another bottle, which Patrick knows is probably not the best idea, but David’s got a wicked glint in his eye, so he doesn’t argue. 

They steal bites off each other’s plates, and when the waiter asks if they’ve saved room for dessert, David is already reaching for the menu before Patrick can get out a “possibly.” 

Patrick orders a decaf cappuccino and David gets the tiramisu, already pushing him to get the chocolate mousse, but Patrick truly can’t handle anything more than a bite or two. David threatens not to share if he doesn't get his own, but thank goodness they didn’t because, a few minutes later, a veritable mountain of dessert is placed before them - a mascarpone Cliffs of Dover. 

“Holy shit,” Patrick mutters, but David dives in with gusto, digging his spoon through the spongy layers like a paleontologist moments away from a life-changing discovery. Patrick even manages to get in a few bites before David is polishing the final piece off. 

They eventually stumble out of the restaurant semi-gracefully, Patrick feeling warm and full and more in love than he thinks any one person should feel. It’s soppy, he knows, but after so much time denying himself, he plans to fully submit to whatever good fortune life decides to throw his way.

He allows David to tug him across the square to Lincoln Center, which is remarkably empty for such a beautiful night. The shows on the stages inside must still be going on. They walk up the small, illuminated steps, stopping in the middle of the plaza and glancing around, ballet to the left, philharmonic to the right, opera dead ahead. 

“Wow,” Patrick breathes, staring up at the massive buildings before them, lit up in soft yellow light. 

David leans into Patrick’s side and he snakes his arm around David’s waist, taking hold of his belt loop as they just stare for a while. Water from the fountain rockets up into the air, sending a few young women screaming and laughing as the breeze carries the mist in their direction. 

It’s rare in his life that he’s felt true contentment, never truly happy in the life he allowed the world to build for him, but Patrick has one more moment to add to the list. It’s a list he only realized he started after moving to Schitt’s Creek - after he hit play on the first voicemail left for him by the remarkable and enigmatic David Rose. 

He finds himself needing to swallow past the lump in his throat as he stares at the Chagalls through watery eyes. 

“They’re called The Triumph of Music and The Sources of Music,” he murmurs, clearing his throat and nodding at the massive murals on the left and right, respectively. 

David snorts. “I know that. I’m surprised _you_ know that.” 

Patrick smiles smugly. “I did some googling.” If David notices his glassy eyes, he doesn’t say anything. 

“Proud of you, honey,” he teases instead, staring at Patrick for a second before leaning down and pressing a kiss to his forehead. It’s such a remarkably tender moment that Patrick’s stomach flips and he pulls him into his side just a bit tighter. 

“Let’s go back to the hotel,” he murmurs and feels David nod against his head. 

“Good plan.” 

“There’s a pool on the roof.” 

“And… how does that factor into the plan?” David asks, halting them in their slow meander back across the street. 

Patrick smiles and continues walking, pulling David with him. “I thought we could go for a swim.”

“Um, I didn’t pack a bathing suit.” 

“Yes, you did,” he replies, and sure enough, the look he gives David ten minutes later when he tosses the black and white piece to him that he’s magicked out of his suitcase definitely classifies as ‘smug.’

David only grumbles a little as he changes, before they head up to the 11th Floor and up a short flight of stairs. There are a few people lingering on the lounge chairs, nursing drinks, and a bass beat is coming from the rooftop bar just below, but it’s calm. You’d never know you were in the middle of one of the busiest cities in the world. The summer air is cool, but the pool is warm and Patrick can’t help but groan as he sinks into the water. 

“Good plan,” David murmurs, smiling shyly and reaching out to tug Patrick to him by the waistband of the only suit David didn’t openly mock when Patrick unpacked the box it was in. “You know what would make this perfect?” 

“Please don’t say ‘wine,” Patrick groans. “I swear I’d bleed Tuscany’s finest if you cut me right now.” 

David grins and pulls Patrick until his back is flush against his chest, and Patrick shivers as he mouths at his ear. “I was going to say some candles, but I could go for some wine.” 

Patrick can only shake his head at David’s ability to put away a good Chianti, leaning back to bury his nose in David’s neck, kissing it chastely and tasting salt and chlorine. 

“How do you like New York so far?” David asks, arms holding tighter around Patrick’s stomach. 

“View’s not bad,” he replies, watching with delight as David’s cheeks go pink at the compliment. 

David pulls them deeper into the water, letting it take their weight as he leans against the side of the pool, sighing so deeply, Patrick rises and falls with his chest. 

“How are _you_ liking it so far?” he ventures. He knows David has complicated feelings regarding this city. He knows that some of his worst memories are rooted in the temptations and adventures she offers. To be perfectly honest, Patrick was more than a little hesitant to agree when David pitched this trip, but he had looked so hopeful, so eager for Patrick to say ‘yes’ that he was nodding before he could even weigh the pros and cons. 

“S’perfect,” he murmurs, so sincerely, and Patrick feels him press a kiss to his hair as a weight is lifted off his chest. “I think I overdid the tiramisu, though, and I’m about to collapse into a food coma.”

Patrick chuckles. He knows the feeling. It’s already after 11:30pm - they’ll go in soon and probably shower together, teasing each other a bit, but he knows neither has the energy to do much of anything. 

Pity. 

He runs his thumb over David’s wrist bone where his hands are clasped around Patrick’s ribs, so thankful that they’ve reached this point, but hating the circumstances that happened to get them there. It’s a complicated cocktail of euphoria and melancholy that has Patrick’s still-healing heart feeling a bit whiplashed. 

He surreptitiously checks his watch, noting the time, and if David notices him do it every few minutes thereafter, he doesn’t say anything. But when the hands hit midnight, Patrick smiles, leans up, and presses a lingering kiss to David’s stubbled jaw.

“Happy birthday, babe.” 

xxxxxx

David isn’t sure when he started using pajamas as armor. 

When he was a boy, Adelina dressed him in the most comfortable cotton sets she could find. As he grew, he traded them out for silk, and when he moved away, he opted for nothing at all, luxuriating in the feel of 100% Egyptian cotton against his bare skin. 

But then came the parties and the drugs and the sexual partners that were rarely there in the morning. David would wrap up in joggers and sweaters, no matter the temperature, no matter the sweat still cooling on his skin, and hover on the edge of the bed, far away from the other body occupying it, and depending on how high or drunk or sober he was, count down the hours until it was all over. 

He stopped wrapping up quite so thickly with Patrick. No, Patrick peeled back his layers, literally and figuratively, laying David bare in a way he had never allowed himself to be with anyone else. 

In their months apart, all of that progress had been undone, but he’s slowly getting back to where they had been. 

After the pool, he had showered and pulled on just briefs and a t-shirt, reveling in the way he could feel the heat from Patrick’s topless skin pressed up against his back. 

It’s the lack of that warmth that has him blinking his eyes open in the late light of morning. 

“Patrick?” he mumbles, sleepy inhale sharpening to a gasp as a lingering kiss is pressed to the jut of his hip bone beneath the covers. 

He moans softly, tossing the blanket back so he can see the top of Patrick’s bedhead. Gentle hands hold his hips and David bends his knees, cradling Patrick’s upper body in the v of his legs as he runs his fingers through his hair. 

Patrick is still being careful - before, he’d have his underwear off and his cock in his mouth before David had even woken, but he’s so meticulous about consent that David’s heart cracks open a bit more every time he asks for it. 

Patrick looks up at him beneath his lashes, thumb toying with the elastic edge of his briefs. “Okay?” he breathes and David nods, lifting his hips and allowing Patrick to pull them off. 

“Okay,” he replies, because he knows Patrick needs to hear it. 

Eventually they’ll get to the point where David doesn’t need him to ask anymore. He honestly doesn’t need him to ask now, he trusts him implicitly, but he’s still so grateful for this. So grateful for the man handling him, not like glass, but like something precious all the same. Something worthy of love and care and just some goddamn permission. 

He’s been hard since he realized what exactly Patrick was up to, but even if he hadn’t been, the way Patrick is nosing along the crease of his groin, teasing and caressing, would certainly get him there.  

“Fuck, Patrick,” he breathes. Good to know his boyfriend hadn’t lost in his touch in the six months they were apart. Granted, he could have had practice. He could have fucked half the guys in Toronto and David couldn’t say a goddamn thing about it. 

But this isn’t what he wants to be thinking about while the man he loves does something wicked with his tongue on his balls that makes him whine. 

“Okay?” Patrick asks again and David nods enthusiastically and not a little impatiently. 

“I need your mouth on me.” 

“Yeah?” Patrick goads, teasing glint in his eye. “Where? Here?” He presses a kiss to trail of hair beneath David’s navel, studiously avoiding his cock and David groans. 

“Patrick Brewer, you know damn well where I need - _oh_!” he cries as Patrick swallows him down, sucking strongly before pulling back and caressing the tip with his tongue. 

Oh this isn’t going to last long _at all._  

“Jeeeesus,” David moans, bringing his knees up even more in an effort to keep from thrusting into his boyfriend’s perfect mouth. 

With gentle hands on the back of his thighs holding him open, Patrick takes him apart, alternating licks and sucks, before mouthing down past his sack to press an absolutely filthy kiss to his hole as he strokes his aching cock. 

David’s moans have moved beyond words, and he tries to remember to not pull too harshly on Patrick’s hair. Patrick grunts and David can feel the bed move as he humps it, no doubt trying to get some friction himself. God, David can’t wait to get his hands on him. 

The thought makes the coil in the pit of his gut ready to spring, lighting him up like a supernova. 

“Fuck, Patrick, I’m gonna come, fuck, oh God,” he babbles and Patrick’s mouth replaces his hand on his cock, finger circling his wet rim. 

“Okay?” he pops off to ask and David will have to remember to apologize later for the tone of his reply: 

“Fuck me,” he demands in lieu of a more polite response. 

It’s all the permission Patrick needs to swallow him down while pressing a single finger into David’s hole, crooking it just so to have David seeing fucking _stars_. 

He screams and grips his knees, holding himself open as Patrick sucks down all he’s offering. His hips judder as orgasm rips through him and by the time he comes back to himself, he’s shaking and making noises that sound like sobs. 

“Oh my god, oh my god,” he realizes he’s murmuring, blinking his eyes open to find Patrick still between his legs, staring at him as he rapidly strokes himself off. “C’mere,” he manages, beckoning him up as he adjusts himself against the headboard. 

“Fuck, babe,” Patrick breathes as he scrambles to straddle him. “So good. You were so good.” 

David bats his hand away and groans when he realizes Patrick has been using his own come as lube. “You’re so hot,” he moans, wrapping his free arm around Patrick to keep him from toppling over as he works his cock. The desperate noises escaping Patrick’s mouth tell David he’s already close.

“Come for me, Patrick. Need you on me.” 

“David,” he pants, in so much pained pleasure, David can’t help but moan with him as he jacks him off. Patricks fingers slide up into David’s hair as he holds on for dear life, hips thrusting into David’s left hand while the right plays with the top of Patrick’s crack, gently moving down to press against his hole. 

“Let go, honey,” he whispers and that’s what does it: Patrick grips David’s hair as his back arches and he cries up towards the ceiling, hips pressing closer to David’s body as he rides out the waves of what looks like an absolutely _spectacular_ orgasm. 

He slumps forward into David’s arms and they stay there for a while, breathing heavily, cheek pressed to sweaty cheek. 

“Jesus,” Patrick finally moans, voice wrecked. 

“David,” he corrects with a smug smile, leaning back to press a chaste kiss on Patrick’s forehead. 

Patrick’s eyes sparkle as he cups David’s face in his strong hands, running his thumbs along his flushed cheekbones. “Happy birthday,” he whispers, and David’s can’t help but tear up at the conviction in his voice. 

“I love you,” he murmurs in reply, watching as Patrick’s face lights up. The way it always does when he says those words. 

“I love _you_.”

“I have a surprise for you.” He checks his phone on the bedside table and is surprised to learn it’s nearly 11am. 

Patrick frowns, moving to get off of David’s lap, but David holds him there. “But it’s _your_ birthday.” 

“And _our_ anniversary,” he reminds.  

Patrick tilts his head and gets that little crease between his brows that appears when David does something unexpected and it makes Patrick emotional. 

“But first,” David announces, glancing down at his chest and the stripes of come Patrick has left on it, “a shower.” His stomach grumbles. “Then food.” 

“Definitely food,” Patrick replies. 

“Aw, work up an appetite, honey?” David teases, swatting Patrick’s hip and allowing him to clamber off this time. 

“It’s not my stomach that’s grumbling, babe,” is Patrick’s teasing reply. 

They’re still feeling particularly handsy as they hit the Starbucks on the corner for coffee and breakfast, since they were in bed well beyond the time the hotel stopped serving.  

David leads them towards the subway at Columbus Circle, taking a sip of his caramel macchiato to wash down the breakfast sandwich he all but inhaled the minute it was placed in his hand, but Patrick tugs him to a stop before they get to the stairs. 

“I thought you said we weren’t going downtown,” he says, nodding at the sign which clearly reads **Downtown A Train** with a concerned frown. David just wants to kiss it away, so he does. 

“We’re not going to _my_ downtown. This is the real downtown - like, end-of-the-island downtown.” Patrick still looks worried so David continues. “We’ll be underground for the part of the city I’d rather not revisit. It’s okay.” 

“Okay,” Patrick acquiesces and allows David to lead him underground. It’s hot and sticky, but the train arrives quickly and they get settled in the cool air conditioning. He can feel Patrick’s questions mounting with every station they pass, but he doesn’t voice them, allowing instead for David to take the lead. The Fulton Street stop was still a little too close to Tribeca for his taste, but they’d be walking in the opposite direction towards the South Street Seaport. He could handle that. 

They come up above ground, David taking great delight in watching Patrick marvel at the old-school New York architecture. There are new high rises, to be sure, but this is where the history is. A Revolutionary War nut would lose their goddamn minds in the lower tip of Manhattan. The ten-minute walk from the subway station starts with large avenues and eventually gives way to winding, cobblestone streets. They pass Titanic Memorial Park, stopping long enough for Patrick to read the plaque, before continuing to Water Street and the Seaport beyond. 

“Wow,” Patrick murmurs, taking it all in. “Not that I’m not loving it, but, uh, what are we doing here?” 

David smiles and tilts his head to the side, tugging Patrick towards the water and a sign that reads _Pioneer_ , beyond which an 80-foot schooner is tied up to the dock. David pulls out a piece of paper from the Alexander McQueen, black leather fanny-pack strapped across his chest and hands it to the young woman at the head of the ramp leading down to the floating dock. 

“Welcome!” she greets and David smiles, finally chancing a glance back at his boyfriend who’s staring at the boat like he’s never seen one before. 

“This was supposed to be at sunset,” David begins, “but with the Hamilton surprise, I had to bump our timetable up a bit.” 

Patrick shakes his head and finally looks at him. “I didn’t think you did boats.”

“I don’t. Just yachts, really, but you do.” 

“And how do you know that?” he asks, bumping his shoulder before boarding the massive sailboat. “There’s literally no water around Schitt’s Creek deep enough to handle anything more than a kayak.” 

“There’s a picture of you and your dad on a boat in your apartment,” David simply replies. Patrick freezes, turns, and looks at him. 

“I can’t believe you noticed that.” 

 _I notice everything about you,_ he wants to say, but he doesn’t. Merely slaps Patrick’s ass since they’re blocking the gangway, but Patrick continues to stare at him like he built the Brooklyn Bridge behind them. 

“You’re incredible,” he whispers, but David can’t reply around the sudden lump in his throat so he shows his love by rubbing in the spot of sunscreen Patrick missed just below his ear. 

“Let’s go get a good, sturdy seat. I’d rather not fall overboard.” 

“Aw, do you want me to get you a life jacket?” Patrick asks as he sits down on top of the cabin on the side and pulls David down next to him. 

“Orange is not my color.” 

“I beg to differ,” Patrick replies with a wink and a fond smile. David can see the memory of his open mic night sweater in his eyes, and he flushes. 

For a 1pm sail on a Saturday in July, the boat isn’t too crowded. Patrick pulls the Ray Bans off of the collar of his shirt as David grabs his white glasses from his pack, shielding against the afternoon sun reflecting off the harbor. Deckhands caution the guests to keep their hands and feet free of the ropes as the Captain skippers them further into the bay. 

David can practically feel Patrick vibrating as the sails are unfurled, catching the wind coming across from the Atlantic. The Statue of Liberty stands tall against the New Jersey skyline and, though David doesn’t go in for that sort of patriotic thing, even he can admit it’s impressive. 

“This is amazing,” Patrick murmurs, pressing a kiss through David’s shirt on his shoulder. “Thank you.” 

David smiles and bumps his nose against Patrick’s. “You’re welcome.” 

The crew hands out drinks, choices of soda and water and beer only. Sadly, David slums it over a can of Brooklyn Lager, already dreaming of the red wine he can partake in later. The sail lasts for roughly two hours and, despite the fact that the last time he was on a boat, it was Gwyneth’s yacht off the coast of Positano, he has a remarkably good time. 

Granted, he thinks as he watches his boyfriend watch the horizon, the company certainly helps. 

xxxxxx

They’re going to be late for their dinner reservations because David insisted on jumping in on his shower, which Patrick _knew_ they didn’t have time for yet still allowed him to do anyway because a naked David is a very persuasive David. 

“Do you have the tickets?” Patrick asks for the fifth time in twice as many minutes. 

“For the love of God, yes,” David snaps. “Do you want to hold them?” 

“No, I trust you.” 

“Do you, though?” he needles and Patrick feels himself flush as he hastily buttons up his shirt. 

“Sorry, yes, of course I do. It’s just - this was an incredibly generous thing your parents did for us and I’d hate to miss the opportunity because they fell out of one of our pockets.” 

David narrows his eyes as he saunters over and finishes doing up the buttons, leaving more of Patrick’s throat showing than he’d probably like. 

“Well, I’m glad we both realize Alexis had nothing to do with this generosity.” 

Patrick snorts, leans forward, and pecks David on the cheek. “It was her idea.” He feels David’s grip on his shoulder tighten. 

“What?” 

“It was her idea.” He does so love catching his boyfriend off-guard. 

David frowns. “And how do you know that?” 

“I texted her earlier to thank her.” Patrick shrugs, moving away to pull on his blazer, but David remains where he is. "Don't worry, I signed it from the both of us." 

“You’re just… texting my sister?” He gestures at Patrick’s phone on the nightstand with a sweep of his arm, which reminds Patrick he should put it in his pocket before he forgets. 

“Always have had. Even during - ” He stops, catching himself. They haven’t had that talk yet. 

Awkward silence descends and Patrick chances a glance at David only to find him looking back at him calmly, if a little sadly, while he’s sure he looks like a deer caught in the headlights. It’s not often he’s the startled one. 

“Not yet, honey,” David murmurs, walking over and gently taking hold of his lapels again. “Soon, though.” 

Patrick swallows and nods. He’s been taking his cues from David on this, on delving deeper into the six months they were apart. Patrick’s life was relatively boring, while David’s - Well. 

They both know how David’s ended up. 

Patrick would be all right with that - he’s already decided he doesn’t ever have to know, but David insisted. When the time was right. 

They’re just getting their bearings, though. They don’t need to rock the boat yet. He pauses and repeats what he just thought in his head. Perhaps he spent too much time on the sea today. 

He looks up to find David staring at him knowingly and he blushes, but then David’s eyes rake down his chest and his gaze softens. 

“Is this the jacket you wore to - ”

“Our first date? Yeah.” Patrick smiles. “Haven’t worn it since. Seemed like a good time to pull it out of the back of the closet.”

David all but sags in his arms and Patrick takes his weight, gently rocking him back and forth in the middle of their hotel room, hands caressing the back of his grey, cashmere sweater. 

“Okay, I love you, but we really need to go,” he says, grabbing handfuls of David’s ass and squeezing. 

“As I've said before, don’t start something you can’t finish, Mr. Brewer,” David admonishes, but untangles himself anyway, grabbing his wallet and cell phone, but leaving the fancy fanny pack behind. 

Patrick never would understand that particular fashion renaissance. 

They hustle to the restaurant, making it only five minutes after their scheduled time. Luckily, it’s just across the street from theatre, another Italian bistro because David’s never met a carb he didn’t like. And Patrick loves him for it. 

“Have you ever been to a Broadway show?” he asks as they clink wine glasses together, and David hums as he takes a sip. 

“I invested in a couple. Was invited to the opening nights, but usually only went to the after parties. You?”

Patrick raises an eyebrow. “I don’t think the local community theatre counts. Never really been to New York before, remember?” 

Of course he remembers, you idiot. Patrick’s first trip was to bring David home. 

_“You said you wanted to go home. Stevie was worried about you. I reached out. You replied.”_

_“So you came to get me.”_

_“I came to get you.”_

“Yes, well.” David clears his throat and if his next sip of wine is rather large, Patrick doesn’t tease. He’s taking cues from David after all. 

The meal is just as good as the previous night’s, but this time, they don’t overeat, knowing they have nearly three hours of musical to get through. 

But ‘get-through’ is not the phrase Patrick should have used. ‘Privilege of witnessing’ would have been more apt. 

“Holy shit,” he blurts at intermission, but David is too stunned for words, a first if there ever was one. He continues to sit in his seat, staring at the set and the actors who are no longer on the stage. 

Deciding he’s not planning on moving anytime soon, Patrick heads to the restroom, battling the crowds, and gets them both an exorbitantly priced drink from concessions when he’s finished. He marvels at the plastic sippy cup it comes in and makes his way back down the aisle of the orchestra.

“Here, a souvenir,” he murmurs, handing David his wine in the cup with the Hamilton logo on the side. 

David’s head whips around and he sounds practically manic when he says, “We’re listening to this soundtrack the entire way home.” 

“Whatever you want, babe,” Patrick murmurs placatingly, leaning forward and pressing a kiss to those perfect lips, but pulling up the cast recording in his iTunes to have downloaded by the time they leave the theatre. 

As someone who appreciates music, Patrick knows the power of song, but he’s not prepared for act two to leave him the wreck it does. Next to him, David is a mess, wiping his eyes with the hand that’s not gripping Patrick’s, shoulders shaking as he lets Patrick blindly lead him through the crowds and into the New York summer air. 

He has a surprise planned for David and so he begins to walk towards the uptown subway train on 50th Street, but before he can reach it, he’s tugged to a stop in the middle of the sidewalk and spun to meet David’s red-rimmed eyes. 

“Don’t leave me,” he says, quiet and not a little bit desperate. 

Patrick swallows. It’s too soon for such declarations but that doesn’t stop him from bringing David’s hand to his mouth for a kiss and fiercely whispering, “Not ever.” It's not something he can promise. He would never willingly leave, but as the show proves, sometimes circumstances are beyond their control. 

Whatever David sees in his face eases the worried crease on his forehead, though. After a moment, he nods, offering a small smile and a chaste kiss to Patrick’s lips. 

“Did you… have a good time?” He’s genuinely concerned because, yes, the musical was emotional, but David looks not all that different from when he opened the door in that Tribeca townhouse two months ago, minus the high.

But David gushes out, “It was wonderful” in an impassioned breath and Patrick smiles. 

“Good,” he begins, making a mental note to send the Roses flowers, “because that would put a damper on the rest of the evening.” 

David’s whole demeanor changes, as he raises a coy eyebrow and his eyes sparkle. “And what’s in store for the rest of the evening?” 

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” he teases. 

“I would, in fact. That’s why I’m asking,” David grouses, but not really, allowing Patrick to lead him towards the uptown train again. 

They take the C to 81st Street, pausing for a moment to admire the Natural History Museum lit up against the night sky. 

“I hear it comes alive at night,” Patrick says, expression serious, and David laughs, which had been his goal all along. 

“You’re ridiculous.” 

“And you love me.” 

“God help me, I do,” David grumbles, pressing a kiss to his temple, all signs of… whatever that was in the aftermath of the show gone. 

Patrick leads them up to 83rd Street, cutting over from Central Park West, past Columbus and Amsterdam, to a line of trees wound with white fairy lights in front of a cafe. 

“What’s this?” David asks. 

“Dessert,” Patrick replies with a smile while using his body to carefully block the sign which tells passersby exactly what this restaurant is well-known for. 

David practically glows as they walk in, glancing around at the floor to ceiling windows that have been opened to the sidewalk to let the evening air in. 

“Sit anywhere you’d like,” a young woman says from behind the counter, whose glass cases hold enough rows of pies and cakes and cookies to have David practically drooling on his sweater. 

Patrick would normally let David pick which table he wants, but there’s a purpose to this visit, so he takes David’s hand and deliberately leads him over to a table for two in the center of the room, pulling out a chair facing the door for him before taking the seat opposite. 

“How chivalrous,” David mocks and Patrick shrugs. 

“It’s your birthday.” 

The server drops off two menus, each full with drink and dessert options. _Cafe Lalo_ is inscribed across the top. 

“How’d you find this place?” David asks, but Patrick just watches him with a smile, waiting to see if it sinks in. When he gets no reply, David pries his eyes away from the cake options to stare at his boyfriend. “What?” 

“Nothing,” he replies innocently, not needing to glance at the menu, having already decided on red velvet cake the moment he looked the place up online. 

David’s eyes narrow, but he returns his gaze to the menu before glancing quickly back up, as if Patrick is going to magic something out of a hat. 

Patrick takes the moment to glance around. It’s slightly bigger than it looks online, granted there weren’t many photos to see. Vintage French liquor posters adorn the brick walls while tiny jewel-toned chandeliers hang in the corners. The top of the impressive dessert counter is adorned with fake lemon plants, giving everything a cheery glow, and the marble table they sit at is adorably cozy. 

Some might even call it ‘romantic.’

He can tell David’s been trying to work out why they’re here, beyond just dessert, and Patrick is taking far more delight in his frustration than he should. 

All of a sudden, David glances around at the decor and then down at the table, before his head shoots up. “They filmed ‘You’ve Got Mail’ here. Oh my God,” he breathes but Patrick merely smiles. 

“Did they now.” It’s not a question. 

“You knew. You knew they filmed ‘You’ve Got Mail’ here. That’s why we came. You did this for me,” he babbles. 

“Technically, I did it for me,” Patrick corrects. “I love red velvet cake.” 

“Patrick,” David starts, grabbing his hands as if making him see. “Meg Ryan sat in this chair.” 

“And Tom Hanks sat in this one,” he replies with a wink and David leans back in his seat hard enough to tip it onto its back legs. 

“Oh my God.” 

“I was wondering when it would sink in. I started to think I should have brought a copy of Pride and Prejudice with a rose in it.” 

David gets Patrick’s favorite expression on his face, the same one he graced him with when he held the store’s framed first receipt in his hands. His head tilts to the side, his eyes go soft, and his lips press together as if trying to figure out whether or not Patrick is real. 

Patrick would happily spend the rest of his life getting David to make that face at him over and over again. 

He grips David’s hands where they still hold his on top of the table. “Happy birthday, David,” he whispers. 

“I love you so much,” David replies just as quietly and Patrick’s breath hitches. 

_So much._

It’s the first time he’s said that. Given it that modification, that specification. ‘So much’ could mean so many things, but looking in David’s eyes, Patrick knows he can only begin to scratch the surface of what exactly. 

And to show that love (or maybe just his thanks), David gives Patrick an orgasm that night that lights him up brighter than Times Square. 

xxxxxx

Stretching his hands to the headboard and digging his toes into the sheets, David feels that perfect kind of soreness that only comes after immense cathartic emotion and a thorough fucking.

Well, a semi-thorough fucking. Shattering orgasms were definitely involved. They’re getting there, he thinks.  

Well, _he’s_ getting there. Patrick has been there, waiting with infinite and gentle patience. 

The bliss doesn’t last for long, though, as he reaches over to find the other half of the bed cool and decidedly empty. Giving a pathetic whine, he buries his face in Patrick’s pillow and inhales, wishing his boyfriend back from wherever he is - 

And it works, too, because the door opens a moment later and Patrick enters, balancing two Starbucks cups on top of each other. 

“Morning,” he greets when he notices David is awake and watching him petulantly. 

“Where were you?” he mumbles, reaching out with grabby hands for the caramel macchiato Patrick is handing over. Only then does he notice his boyfriend’s attire. Or lack, thereof. He’s wearing a pair of navy gym shorts and a grey t-shirt, both of which are incredibly sweaty. 

Patrick leans over and presses a quick kiss to David’s mouth, careful to keep his body off the sheets. “I went for a run in the park.” 

“And you didn’t get lost?” 

Patrick grins as he pulls his shirt off. “Shockingly, GPS does exist in Manhattan.” 

And doesn’t David know it. 

_“David Rose. Activate the GPS on your phone. Right now.”_

He swallows back the snarky reply he had at the ready and just stares. Not in an ogling sort of way, but in a _Look how far you’ve come, David Rose_ kind of way. 

Two months ago, just four miles south, he was neck deep in a fucked up situation that he honestly still isn’t sure he would have gotten out of alone. Or alive. 

His family had tried and failed. In fact, they’d only succeeded in pushing him further away, though he knows now that that said more about his state of mind than their efforts. Stevie knew to bide her time, but even she recognized that things were spiraling in a way that was, frankly, scary. But she also knew to reach out to the one person who maybe, possibly, hopefully could fix it. 

No, could help David fix himself. 

He notices Patrick watching him thoughtfully, so he clears his throat and tries to conjure an insult. 

“Surprised you had the energy,” is what he comes up with and Patrick affects an over-the-top wounded expression. 

“Ouch, David,” he says in a perfect imitation of Alexis. 

“Okay, never do _that_ again.” 

Patrick disappears into the shower and David contemplates joining him, but he really is sore and the pillows are nice and the caramel macchiato is delicious so he stays put until Patrick comes back out with a towel wrapped around his waist and a new hickey on his chest and literally pulls him from the bed by his ankle, whining something about the Yankees. 

It’s the mention of hot dogs that finally gets him moving, going for a simple outfit of black, ripped jeans and a white t-shirt (it is warm and they’ll be outside after all). Patrick’s eyes darken when he sees him fully dressed, and he makes a note to add the relatively casual outfit to his repertoire. 

They walk down to Columbus Circle and take the D train to the Bronx. He’s absolutely ravenous by the time they arrive, having wanted to save his appetite for the promised carbohydrates, but he forgets that for a moment as he watches Patrick’s face catch sight of Yankee Stadium for the first time. Sure, he’s a Blue Jays fan, but David has seen enough movies to know how famous Yankee Stadium is. _He’s_ heard of it, after all. That has to count for something. 

“Wow,” Patrick breathes and David hooks his arm through his elbow and tugs him toward the masses making their way to security. He even stops them far enough away for a selfie with the sign in the background so he can send it to Ted and Stevie. Ted will appreciate the sheer joy on Patrick’s face and Stevie the trepidation on David’s. 

Patrick walks them up to the Sky360 Suite entrance, practically bouncing with energy, and David wonders if this is what he was like as a kid. They’re led inside to an elevator and taken upstairs. For someone who’s been in his fair share of suites, this shouldn’t surprise him, but it does. Then again, flashes of his old life often do. 

They exit the elevator to a massive bar/food area that overlooks home plate and Patrick stops dead in the middle of the room. David briefly wonders if he should be concerned, but the smell of cheese fries is awfully distracting, and then Patrick is turning towards him and firmly gripping his shoulders. 

“I feel like I should apologize for everything that’s about to happen today, but look, you knew what you signed up for.”

David lets out an exaggerated sigh. “And, sadly, the warranty has expired.”  

“Love you, too, baby.” Patrick kisses his cheek and David’s stomach swoops. 

‘Babe’ he’s gotten used to. ‘Baby’ only comes out occasionally, but he’s certainly not mad about it. He bites his lips, but he knows he’s blushing. His stomach grumbles and he wonders how much of the game he’ll have to watch before he can have a hot dog, but then Patrick is leading him over to the bar and immediately placing an order for two beers, two hot dogs, and cheese fries. 

“We can technically order from our seats and they’ll bring it to us, but I know you’re hungry,” he says, pressing a kiss to David’s knuckles with a knowing look. 

“You knew what you signed up for,” he echoes and Patrick’s smile gets wider. 

“That I did.” 

“Next round,” David cheerfully replies at this new information. He wonders if they’ll deliver ice cream, too. 

They get their goodies, with David inhaling his hot dog before they even step outside, and find their seats. They’re in the first tier instead of ground level, but in the front row right behind home plate. He feels a slight tinge of panic because this almost feels a little too much like his life before Patrick. Or, before Patrick came back to him. And though pre-bankruptcy David wouldn’t be caught dead at a baseball game, he certainly fucked enough people who would. 

Patrick’s hand comes down on his thigh and squeezes. “You okay?” 

David nods, but presses his lips together. Patrick squeezes tighter. 

“It’s just… fancy,” he admits, and he can see Patrick register everything he’s not saying on that painfully open face.  

Patrick takes a gulp of his beer and then steals a cheese fry from the pile in David’s lap. “If you call this ‘fancy,’ I need to up my game.” He says it for David’s sake, because David _knows_ that this is not how Patrick attends baseball games, and it continually surprises him. 

How much he loves Patrick Brewer. 

He leans in and places a kiss on the lips he loves so much, vowing to enjoy this afternoon even if he spends the majority of it completely lost. He couldn’t tell you the difference between a touchdown and a home run - he’s impressed he knows those terms at all - but he knows the difference between Patrick’s laughs and the way his hair looks red if the light hits it just so. There are many things in life he won’t give a shit about, but Patrick Brewer will always be the exception to every rule. 

Anthems are played and more cheese fries are consumed. He listens to Patrick explain what’s happening and truly tries to follow along, but Patrick was right when he said, _“You didn’t absorb anything from all those baseball games, huh?”_ all those weeks ago. He resolves to try harder this time around, quiz or not. 

“What did you play?” he asks and before, it would have just been the polite thing to do (though no one was ever lining up to call him that), but he honestly wants to know. If it’s Patrick, he wants to know it all. 

“What position?” Patrick clarifies and David nods. “Catcher, though I was a decent shortstop, too.” 

“I don’t know what that is,” he replies, as he often does when Patrick goes off on a tangent about sports, so Patrick points out the man on the field between second and third base. 

“It’s one of the most demanding defensive positions. I always wanted to be a pitcher, but I never had the arm.” 

 _Huh_. David never knew that about him. It makes him wonder what else he doesn’t know. 

He listens to the rest of the brief rundown Patrick offers, knowing David’s short attention span for anything outside the realm of fashion, gossip, and the store. If anything, he’ll leave Yankee Stadium knowing at least what a double play is which is more than he could say when he entered. 

He drinks enough beer to make him pleasantly buzzed and even Patrick, more used to consuming the drink of plebs, is delightfully flushed. The Blue Jays squeak out a win, 5-4, and though David doesn’t really care, Patrick does, and so he cheers loudly as someone named Eric rounds the bases. 

He can’t help but feel that pebble in the pit of his stomach, though. It’s not a rock yet, but it could be - the shadow of the conversation they have yet to have. 

They’ve been putting it off and it’s already Sunday. They leave in the morning. If it’s going to happen in this safe cocoon they’ve created hundreds of miles from home, then it needs to happen tonight. 

 _“Not yet, honey,”_ he had said. _“Soon, though.”_

Soon is now and, as they meander their way down the ramps to Frank Sinatra’s _New York, New York_ , David forms a plan. 

xxxxxx

Patrick chugs one of the three bottles of free water they took from the suite on their way back to Manhattan, smacking his dry lips against the onslaught of beer and an overabundance of sodium. 

It’s been a long time since he’s seen a professional baseball game and the joy it fills him with has put a permanent (probably maniacal) smile on his face. If the way David is staring at him is any indication, his joy is infectious. 

There’s something beneath it, though, he thinks as he watches his boyfriend watch him. Something slightly darker. He has a feeling he knows where this night is heading - they leave tomorrow after all, but it doesn’t prepare him for the detour David takes when the train (running local from the game) stops at 72nd Street. 

“Where are we going? I thought we got off at Columbus Circle.” 

“Not tonight,” David murmurs, squeezing his hand and pulling him through the crowds. They come up above ground right next to the park and enter almost where Patrick did when he went for his run that morning. 

David seems determined, like a man on a mission, so Patrick remains quiet, letting this unfold at David’s own pace. They pass a large lawn named Sheep’s Meadow, still dotted with people picnicking and laying out, despite the dipping sun. There’s a Le Pain Quotidien on the left where dogs are enjoying a dish of water while their humans sip at juice and glasses of wine. David barely spares them a glance, and Patrick can’t help but be impressed with his sense of direction. Though David used to live here, Patrick knows for a fact that Central Park was hardly on his list of most visited places. He had to pause his run at least three times just to figure out where the hell he was. 

They eventually cross a large, tree-lined thoroughfare, which he recognizes from many movies but most recently from _When Harry Met Sally_. David had sat him down after a long day of unpacking boxes and declared his knowledge of classic romantic comedies to be ‘woeful.’ 

The mall dead-ends into a large stone staircase, which they descend, walking through a beautifully tiled archway under which a busker plays the intro to a slow, acoustic cover of a song Patrick recognizes but can’t put a name to at the moment. 

“Hey, slow down for a second,” he says, halting David’s march towards the fountain he can now see on the other side. 

_“If you're not the one for me_   
_Then how come I can bring you to your knees?_   
_If you're not the one for me_   
_Why do I hate the idea of being free?_   
_And if I'm not the one for you_   
_You've gotta stop holding me the way you do_   
_Oh honey if I'm not the one for you_   
_Why have we been through what we have been through”_

Patrick sucks in a breath. He recognizes the Adele tune now, but the young man singing it gives it a mournful quality that seems to pierce Patrick’s soul. 

_“It's so cold out here in your wilderness_   
_I want you to be my keeper_   
_But not if you are so reckless_

_If you're gonna let me down, let me down gently_   
_Don't pretend that you don't want me_   
_Our love ain't water under the bridge_   
_If you're gonna let me down, let me down gently_   
_Don't pretend that you don't want me_   
_Our love ain't water under the bridge_   
_Say that our love ain't water under the bridge”_

It’s more than a little on the nose and, given his past life choices, Patrick was never a big believer in fate, but sometimes he does consider the universe and the infinite ways she amuses herself. He wonders if David is listening to the lyrics too, or if he’s just humoring him, but then he takes a step back and wraps his arms around Patrick’s waist from behind, pressing his forehead into the back of Patrick’s neck. 

He’s listening. 

_“What are you waiting for?_   
_You never seem to make it through the door_   
_And who are you hiding from?_   
_It ain't no life to live like you're on the run_   
_Have I ever asked for much?_   
_The only thing that I want is your love_

_If you're gonna let me down, let me down gently_   
_Don't pretend that you don't want me_   
_Our love ain't water under the bridge”_

“Let’s get a glass of wine,” David suddenly blurts, abruptly letting him go, but Patrick catches him wipe a tear before he turns and all but stalks towards the fountain. 

With a heavy sigh, he drops a few dollars into the musician’s guitar case and gives him a grateful smile, before jogging to catch up with his boyfriend who’s pacing in front of the Bethesda Fountain. 

“What’s going on?” he asks when he reaches for him, but David paces out of his grasp. 

“I’m not entirely sure I can do this fully sober and the beer wore off already,” David replies with a flap of his arms in the direction of what looks to be a restaurant to the right at the head of the pond. 

Alarm bells go off in Patrick’s head, but this isn’t cocaine. It’s not even weed. Even he can understand the need for a bit of Dutch courage. After that Adele cover, he’s feeling like some liquid fortification would do him good, too. 

“Okay. We can get a glass of wine.” He hates that he’s talking softly, like if he speaks any louder, he’ll spook David. But he knows what this is, what it’s leading to, and he promised to follow wherever David led. 

He’s going to keep his word. 

He holds his hand out and David stops pacing, giving him that crooked, shy smile he saves just for him, before threading their fingers together. They head up a path to the right, away from the fountain and towards the restaurant whose windows are wide open, letting the sound of a piano echo across the lake. 

“It’s called The Boathouse,” David says and Patrick snorts. 

“Apt,” he replies, nodding at the people waiting to take their turns in the rowboats lined up along the shore. 

The Boathouse has an outdoor bar that seems more casual, which is probably for the best since they’re still dressed for a baseball game and not a five-star restaurant. David leads them up to the bar where he orders a glass of Pinot Grigio and Patrick picks a Cabernet. 

David is studiously avoiding his gaze, choosing instead to watch the lone gondola as it comes in to dock very intensely. 

“Hey,” Patrick murmurs, setting his glass on the bar and taking hold of David’s hips, letting his thumbs rub under his t-shirt in soothing circles. “Baby, we don’t have to do this.” 

David shakes his head and then nods it swiftly. “Yes, we do.” 

“David - ”

“Any… any hesitancy you’re sensing is not because I don’t want to. I do. Want to. I want you to know what I went through, but I - ” he stops and clears his throat and Patrick digs his fingers in tighter. “I’m not proud of it and I don’t want - I don’t want you to ever not be proud of me either.” 

Patrick locks his knees to keep from falling to the ground because David looks like he’s a breath away from shaking apart and one of them has to stay strong for God’s sake. Instead, he leans forward, pushing on David’s hips to back them up two steps into the corner of the outdoor bar, giving them as much privacy as you can get next to a generously-spaced, wrought iron fence. 

“Sweetheart, what did I say to you when I came to get you? Outside that bedroom, what did I say?” 

David visibly swallows, but his lip has been wobbling ever since ‘sweetheart’ left Patrick’s mouth. “You promised not to judge me.” 

“Never’ was the term I believe I used. You believed me then, right?” 

David nods again. 

“So believe me now,” he whispers, pressing a chaste kiss to David’s mouth and tasting salt on his lips. “Nothing you say could make me leave. Not a single goddamn thing.” 

“Okay,” David breathes, and Patrick stays where he is, blocking him from view from the rest of the patrons until he can get himself together. 

He reaches for their wine glasses and hands David his, gently clinking his against it as he murmurs, “I love you so much.” 

_So much._

David’s eyes light up and he presses his forehead against his. “I love _you_ so much.” 

With their glasses drained and their tab paid, Patrick follows David from the restaurant and around its back. He thinks they’re heading down one of the many paths leading further into the park (they’ll never find their way out), but then David makes an abrupt left onto a mulch-covered trail. 

“This way.” 

Patrick pauses. “Are you sure? This looks like a driveway.” There’s even a little official golf cart parked there, but David continues on, undeterred. 

“I’ve been to many a wedding and fundraiser here. I know my way to a darkened corner.” 

Patrick rolls his eyes, but follows anyway. “Comforting, babe.” 

David sends a cheeky grin over his shoulder and Patrick’s just happy to have some life back in those eyes. 

For a while, the trail reminds him of the one leading to Rattlesnake Point, with its leafy canopy and relative seclusion. The city falls away the further they go and the path narrows as the incline steepens. He thinks of the many hikes he went on to sort out his feelings for the man currently walking in front of him and now here they are: hiking together (relatively speaking) to sort things out together.

To heal each other.

The trail curves to the left and David follows it, ignoring various offshoots that crop up here and there. A bench made out of logs is to the right in a little alcove and a plaque on it reads _For Harry._  Despite the fact that it seems like something right out of _Notting Hill_ , they don’t stop there either. They keep walking straight, to the end of the peninsula where the trees clear, and he realizes that they’re now directly across the water from the fountain. If he listens carefully, he can still hear the guitar player strumming beneath the shrieks of laughter coming from children running around. 

David takes a seat on the massive boulder overlooking the water and looks at Patrick nervously, patting the space next to him while offering a tight smile. 

“This okay?” 

Patrick sits down and leans into him, pressing a kiss to his shoulder. “It’s perfect.” 

They stare out over the water, chuckling slightly at a couple in a rowboat who clearly have no idea what they’re doing. The silence isn’t oppressive, but it’s impatient, as if it knows the weight of this moment. 

Patrick leans back against the sun-warmed rock and closes his eyes. Maybe David will find the words easier if he doesn’t feel like Patrick is waiting for them. He clasps his hands together loosely together in his lap and inhales deeply, letting the weekend wash over him. 

It seems as if his life has been in overdrive ever since Stevie’s first text came in: 

**_please don’t panic._ **

The chaos that followed involved a trip to New York, reuniting with the love of his life, a resignation, a move, and tentative steps back into a life he thought he had lost. He doesn’t realize how emotionally drained he is until this moment. 

“You left on a Tuesday,” comes David’s quiet voice. 

Patrick breathes in, but it’s not sharp or loud. It just is. 

“I watched you pack the last of your boxes into your car. The guitar was the last thing to go.” 

Patrick squints his eye open because he didn’t know that. As if he can feel his gaze on him, David lips quirk into a sad smile. 

“I was hiding behind a tree,” he murmurs and Patrick smiles. “Gave Stevie ammunition for _weeks_.” David looks down and twists his rings around his fingers. 

Patrick closes his eyes again, heart thudding. 

“I made it to Friday before I had to get out of town.” He gives a small laugh, but it contains no humor. “Everything reminded me of you. The motel, the cafe, the street Ray lives on. Christ, don’t even get me started on the store.” He laughs again, but it’s wet this time. 

Patrick reaches over and gently takes his hand, squeezing once tightly. 

“I could barely function. I was - ” but he stops himself and shakes his head. “Stevie helped when she could. It seemed like I always had a babysitter in the store. Either Stevie was bored or Alexis needed more lip balm. Fuck even Ted came in to talk about organic dog shampoo.”

David has gone from playing with the rings on his fingers to placing them on Patrick’s. Patrick doesn’t even think he realizes he’s doing it. 

“I texted an old friend of mine. I use the word ‘friend’ loosely. Told him I needed to get away. He said if I could get myself to New York he’d put me up.” David inhales shakily. “I spent part of the store’s savings on that first ticket.”

Patrick squeezes his hand again, but remains quiet. 

“It was nonstop parties when I got there. I met James at one of them. Don’t ask me which one, because I was too fucking high to notice.”  

Patrick feels a tear slide from beneath his closed eyelid, down his temple and into his hair. He doesn’t dare wipe it away, though. He refuses to do anything that might make David second guess how brave he’s being.

“It was fun at first. So different from what I had gotten used to. James was…” but he trails off and lets go of Patrick’s hand. 

Patrick bites his lip to cut off a whimper. David probably doesn’t want to be touching him while he details his sexual exploits, but Patrick needs to be connected to him for this. He needs to show him he’s still here, so he sits up and leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He can barely see David in his peripheral vision, but David can see him. That’s all that matters. 

David inhales and knocks his knee against Patrick’s in wordless thanks, and Patrick closes his eyes once more, resting his lips against his clasped hands. 

“James was fun and funny. At first. He had ins to the best clubs and the best drugs and he didn’t care how drunk I got or how many hits I took. As long as I went home with him at the end of the night, he didn’t care about a goddamn thing. It started just as once a month. Then once every other week. Then every weekend. James was footing the bill by that point so what did it matter?” 

Patrick can hear him swallow and even he has to take a few slow and steady breaths to gather himself. 

“I could tell my family was worried. In their own way. That should have been the biggest clue that things were batshit, but I ignored everything. Stevie took care of the store while I was gone. Alexis helped, or so she claimed. I’d come home still high and Alexis would bitch at me while Stevie would threaten to take videos. Dad would try to lecture me while Mom just wanted to know if I brought anything home for her. 

“Then one weekend, I came back with a bruise and the jokes stopped after that.”

Patrick clenches his hands so hard, his knuckles are white, which he’d see if he bothered to open his eyes, but he’s squeezing them so tight, colors are popping behind his lids. 

David continues and his voice is so steady. Patrick has never been prouder of him. 

“I let James use me the way people in my old life did. I didn’t have my money, but I had my body. I didn’t care. It made me feel - wanted. Appreciated. Honestly, it just made me feel… something. Even if I knew deep down that none of it was real.” 

Patrick presses his lips together so he doesn’t vomit all over the ground, but he remains still. Listening, barely breathing. 

“I can’t pinpoint what made me remember just how much I hated that old life, but the problem was that I had started hating life in Schitt’s Creek, too. You were gone.” He shrugs. “Coming to New York became a way to dull the pain of both.” 

David must be playing with his rings again, because one falls on the ground, bouncing off Patrick’s shoe. He opens his eyes for the first time since David started talking and bends down to pick it up, sliding the warm silver onto his forefinger, keeping it safe until David is finished. 

“I was spiraling. Then, one Monday, I made a joke to Stevie about never coming back. I say, ‘joke,' but who knows?” He licks his lips and clears his throat. “She texted you the day after I left that Thursday.” 

Patrick startles as he feels David’s hand on the back of his neck, before his nose presses against his cheek. 

“I honestly don’t know what would have happened if you hadn’t come,” he fiercely whispers, “and I can’t thank you enough for it.” 

But Patrick is already shaking his head, turning to cup David’s face in his hands and wiping away his tears, ignorant of the ones sliding down his own cheeks. 

“I didn’t do anything. You’re the one who chose to walk away from that. _You_ made that decision. I’m so proud of you, David.” 

David bursts into tears and buries his face in Patrick’s neck. “Not ashamed?” he asks and it comes out all muffled. 

“Jesus, no,” he hiccups around a sob, sliding his fingers through the back of David’s hair and just cupping his head, holding him against him. “Not ashamed.” 

They stay there for a while, just holding each other. David has been to the doctor and been tested and has even started therapy on Talkspace, but this is the first time he looks like he’s not carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.  
  
“What about you?” David asks with puffy eyes, but a smile as he finally pulls away. “What skeletons are in your closet from those six months?”

Patrick shrugs, but he does have something to reveal. Something he hasn’t told anyone, certainly not the man sitting in front of him.

“I kissed a guy,” he murmurs and David’s eyebrows fly up. 

“You did?” 

Patrick nods and scoots closer on the rock. “I was feeling particularly pathetic. I went out and got drunk. Met a guy in a bar.” He knows his ears are pink, but David is watching him without judgment. “I could tell he was interested and he invited me back to his place. I was just drunk enough to say yes.” 

David reaches over and rubs Patrick’s knee, a steadying presence that Patrick’s clings to.

“We made it outside and he pushed me against the wall and kissed me. I wanted to want it. I wanted - I dunno, not to feel,” he says, sympathizing entirely too well with David’s desire to just be numb. 

“But?” David prompts and Patrick sighs with a small shrug. 

“But he wasn’t you.” 

David bites his lips and squeezes his eyes closed as his cheeks go pink. God, Patrick loves that look on him.  

“I pushed him back, rambled some excuse, and tripped over the curb in my haste to get away. It was pretty embarrassing, actually.” 

David opens his eyes again and leans in to kiss him chastely. “But was it as embarrassing as swimming naked in the fountain at Hudson Yards?” 

Patrick makes a big deal out of thinking hard, tapping a finger to his chin, already regretting what he’s about to admit. “I did cry about you in front of my new boss if that makes you feel any better.” 

David laughs and kisses him again, lingering this time. “It does a bit.”

Patrick wraps his arms around him, which is a bit awkward given their positioning on the rock. “Feel okay?” he murmurs and David nods.  

“Feel good. You?” 

“Feel really good.” They sit there nodding and staring at each other with little smiles on their faces. “You hungry?” 

David rolls his eyes. “I’m always hungry.” 

“Mm, well, Tavern on the Green is a few blocks south.” He leans forward and presses a kiss to his nose. “On the way to the hotel, actually.”

David grins. “Did they film a rom-com there, too?” 

Patrick laughs. “Does Ghostbusters count?” 

“No, but I do love 80s Sigourney Weaver so I’ll allow it.” 

They get up from the spot that will always have a special place in Patrick’s heart, and he pulls out his phone to take a picture of the fountain and then another of the rock for good measure. When he turns back, David is watching him with a fond smile and sliding his own phone in his back pocket. 

He doesn’t know it now, but David will gift him with a black and white print of that photo on their second first anniversary; of Patrick standing next to a rock on the edge of the water, looking out into the distance at something only he can see.

xxxxxx

David feels like a wet rag that’s been twisted, but hung in the sun to dry. He didn’t know it was possible to feel so whole and so drained at the same time, but it is. 

Still, dinner feels charged somehow, like something has shifted. Whatever broken glass they’d been walking on since getting back together has been swept aside, and David feels so relieved, he could cry. In fact, he has. Multiple times. He swears his Pinot Noir is half tears at this point. 

They eat at the bar, a beautiful circular, wooden structure in the middle of the old building. There’s a carousel chandelier slowly turning above it that the artist in him would admire more if he didn’t have a better view sitting on the stool next to him. 

Patrick lied when he said no romantic comedies had been filmed here. David can distinctly pick out _It Had to Be You_ and _Alfie_. _Beaches_ , too, but if he thinks about that now, on top of everything else, he’ll need an IV just to rehydrate. 

They eat quickly and quietly, just savoring each other’s company, swapping bites and fond, but increasingly heated looks in equal measure. David doesn’t realize until after the meal that they’ve spent the entire time connected somehow - Patrick playing with the rip on his jeans at the knee, David threading his fingers through Patrick’s, which means he has to attempt to eat with his left hand, but it’s a sacrifice he’s willing to make. 

By the time they stumble into the night air, they’re practically wrapped around each other, earning a smile from the doorman bidding them farewell. They make it to the empty parking lot (no longer used, not because there aren’t any patrons), and David pulls him in tighter, arms winding around his neck as Patrick presses a kiss to his pulse point. 

“Take me to bed,” he whispers and Patrick freezes, pulling away just far enough away to look him in the eye. 

“Yeah?” He can hear the _You sure?_ underneath the simple question. 

David nods. “Yes.” He’s never been more sure of anything his life. He’s ready. 

 _They’re_ ready. 

“Okay,” Patrick whispers, taking his hand and leading them out onto Central Park West. 

They walk south, not slowly, but not rushing either. They’ve both waited a long time for this and David feels anticipatory butterflies in his stomach. 

They don’t say anything as they make a right onto 63rd Street, but Patrick is a steadying presence at his side. He can see the hotel in the distance, its marquee silhouetted against the ballet at the end of the block and, for the first time in his life, he feels a deep appreciation for this godforsaken city. 

She’s a bitch, but she might just end up being his. 

The Empire doorman nods at them both in greeting, and the ride to the 9th floor is shared with a couple who gets off on the 7th. Despite the fact that they’re now alone, they keep to themselves with nothing connecting them but David’s right hand tangled with Patrick’s left. 

It takes him until this moment to realize that Patrick is still wearing one of his silver rings on his forefinger.

And _Christ_ if that doesn’t do things for him. 

The elevator doors open with a ding and David tugs Patrick down the hall, all but shoving his key card into the slot with a growl. 

“David, what the - ” but it’s all he gets out as David slams him up against the now-closed door and kisses him for all he’s worth. And as Patrick shows him on a daily basis, he’s worth a lot. “Wait, hold up,” Patrick manages between kisses and David backs off long enough for him to breath. 

Only then does he realize he’s panting like he just sprinted a mile. 

“Easy, easy,” Patrick breathes, pressing a gentle kiss to his brow. “Just - let me...” He pulls them away from the door and walks David to the bed, carefully pushing him down on the edge and cupping his cheek in his hand. “Breathe for me, baby.” 

David takes in a ragged inhale and a slow exhale. 

“There we go,” Patrick murmurs with a small smile. “We have all night.”

David nods and takes another slow inhale. He rests his hands on Patrick’s hips, leans forward, and presses his forehead against his stomach. He doesn’t deserve this man. 

 _Yes, you do,_ a voice says. It sounds remarkably like Patrick. 

Fingers comb through his hair, gently massaging his scalp, and he hums, tugging Patrick closer in between his legs and clasping his wrist behind his back. 

“How do you want to do this, sweetheart?” Patrick asks and David leans back far enough to take in his expression. _Sweetheart,_ again. He smiles slowly because he knows Patrick would be good with anything he wanted. 

“I need you in me,” he replies and Patrick nods, smiling softly and cupping his face again. 

“Okay.” He presses another kiss to his forehead and, now that the initial flash of lust has abated a bit, it’s left a simmer of want and need that David can easily find himself getting addicted to. 

Patrick’s fingers move towards the buttons on the shirt he’d done up when they headed to Tavern on the Green, but David is quick to take over, slowly slipping each piece of plastic from its cotton hole and revealing the white tee beneath. His fingers brush Patrick’s chest and he can feel the thundering beat of his heart. 

He’s happy to know he’s not the only one nervous about this. 

They’re quiet as they slowly undress. Once Patrick’s button-up hits the floor, David reaches for the white t-shirt, standing up so he can pull it over Patrick’s head. He looks at the expanse of newly revealed skin - it’s a sight he’s seen often in recent weeks, but he still laps it up like a drowning man gasps for air. 

Patrick is quiet as he lets him, knowing that David needs this - needs to trace the freckles on his chest and the scar on his side from a fall off a jungle gym and the nipple that will draw a delicious groan out of Patrick if he bites it just so. 

Having his fill (for the moment), David lifts his arms in the air and allows Patrick to pull his own shirt from his body. It joins the others on the ground and David finds he doesn’t even mind. 

Patrick’s gaze tracks across his body, fingers dancing across his skin, raising goosebumps in their wake. David shifts under the scrutiny, already mentally tallying the list of things he’d change about himself if he could, but Patrick is looking at him like he painted the fucking Mona Lisa and David can’t help but blush.  

“You’re staring,” he murmurs. 

“You’re stunning,” Patrick replies.

He inhales sharply, as he always does whenever Patrick says something so beautiful so casually. It catches him off-guard in a way that only Patrick seems to be able to. 

“Every goddamn inch of you,” he murmurs and David groans, but laughs. He loves it when Patrick curses.  

Reaching out, he unbuttons Patrick’s jeans and gently lowers the zipper, careful not to add too much pressure to his tented briefs. Patrick’s breath still catches when David lowers himself to his knees to push his jeans down and presses his face to his crotch, nosing along his hard length. 

“God, David,” Patrick breathes, and David looks up to find his head tilted back, eyes squeezed shut. 

Pressing a kiss to the damp spot where his cock his leaking, David gets his hands on the elastic of Patrick’s briefs next and carefully pulls them off, helping Patrick step out of them. A hand comes up to cup his face again and he nuzzles into it, pressing a kiss to the borrowed ring. 

He looks up and finds Patrick watching him intently, soft smile on his face. He presses another kiss to the ring so Patrick knows just how much he likes seeing it on his finger.  

“Come up here,” he murmurs, tugging him to standing and getting his hands on David’s black jeans, taking as much care as David did to strip them from his legs. 

It’s enough to make him tear up. 

“I love you,” he blurts out, pretty sure he’s said those three words more this weekend than he has in his entire life. 

“I love you,” Patrick says in return, standing up and wrapping his arms around David, just holding him. 

If you had told David three months ago that he’d be standing naked in the arms of the love of his life, gently swaying back and forth in a New York hotel room totally at peace, he would have asked what drugs you were on and could he have some. But here he is and here they are and life really is funny sometimes. 

“Slowly,” he whispers and Patrick nods, walking them back to the bed and gently lowering David down. He shifts up against the pillows and says, “Side pocket” as he points to his bag on the luggage rack next to the television.

Patrick crosses the room and unzips it as instructed, pulling out lube and a condom. “You came prepared.” 

David pauses in rearranging the pillows, frowning. “You didn’t?” 

Patrick shrugs, crawling over the bed and placing the supplies within reach as he takes a hold of David’s ankle, rubbing his thumb back and forth on the bone. “No.” 

“Why not?” 

“We were going slowly. I didn’t want to presume.” 

David swallows, suddenly unsure for the first time all evening. “But you… want to do this?” 

“God, yeah,” he says, lifting David’s leg by his calf and pressing a kiss to the side of his knee. “I want you so much.” 

And that’s when David hears the tremor in his voice, the bolt of pure want that seems to lace every word. Patrick is holding back because David wanted to go slow; not just tonight, but with their physical relationship in general. He gasps because this perfect man loves him _so much_ and the thought is sometimes enough to overwhelm him. 

But not tonight. 

He holds out his hand and spreads his legs, pulling Patrick to lie down in the v of his hips. He grunts as Patrick’s weight presses into his groin, their hard cocks brushing together, and Patrick bends his neck to muffle a groan on David’s collarbone. 

“I’ve missed you,” David murmurs, giving Patrick a little roll of his hips that has him groaning again. 

“I’ve missed you, too,” he replies a little hoarsely, nipping at David’s shoulder before leaning up on his left arm so his right can brush David’s hair off his forehead. 

David reaches for the abandoned lube and takes Patrick’s hand, pouring a generous amount on his fingers. The heat in Patrick’s eyes has him blushing and he gets a hand around his neck to pull him into a filthy kiss. 

“Get me ready for you.” 

“Jesus, David,” Patrick moans and his hand disappears between his legs, but before David can feel him press at his entrance, he’s whispering, “Okay?” and not moving further until he gets a response.  

David’s heart just cracks _wide_ open.  

“Patrick,” he begins, taking his button face in his hands and making sure he’s listening because David has something very important to say: “I will always be okay with you.” He licks his lips and his voice cracks but he doesn’t care. “It’s you.” 

Patrick looks at him, looks _through_ him, past the defenses he puts up and down to the beating heart beneath, and he knows what David is saying. Patrick doesn’t need to ask permission every time he touches him. 

“I trust you,” he states softly, but firmly, just in case the man he loves needs to hear it out loud. He reaches out and wipes the lone tear that’s fallen onto Patrick’s cheek, before leaning up and pressing a kiss to his damp skin. “Crying during sex?” 

Patrick smiles. “Let me guess: incorrect?” 

David swallows, his own eyes shining. “I’ll let it slide just this once.” 

It won’t be the first time he’s cried during sex with Patrick. Their first time was so mind-blowing, so emotional, that he thinks he scared his boyfriend with how quickly he fell apart in his arms in the aftermath. He knows it won’t be the last time it happens either. 

The man currently sliding a finger into him _so gently_ makes him feel so fucking much that David usually can’t help himself.  

“God, I missed this,” David groans, lifting his knees up to frame Patrick’s ribs as he slides another finger in him, slowly scissoring them in and out. 

It’s been a while since someone was so careful with him and David reaches down to thread his fingers together with Patrick’s free hand. Two fingers becomes three and Patrick crooks them to find that spot that has David crying out towards the ceiling and hoping the hotel walls are thick. 

“I’m ready,” he pants, already reaching for the condom with one hand while pulling Patrick in for another heated kiss with the other. 

“Put it on me?” Patrick asks against his lips, but David is already nodding, ripping the wrapper open and rolling it on Patrick’s hard length, which draws a hiss and moan from the other man as David pumps him a few times. 

Patrick applies more lube to himself and a bit more to David, just in case. He wipes his hand on the sheet and then grabs David’s thigh, hitching it up over his hip and positioning himself at David’s entrance. 

“I have a feeling this isn’t going to last long,” he says with a self-deprecating chuckle, but David shakes his head and nudges at his ass with his heels. 

“Maybe not our longest, honey, but it’s already one of our best.” 

Patrick stares at him for a moment with that fond look again, before pressing their foreheads together as he gently breaches him. David gasps and Patrick moans, hands holding tight and digging into the pillows. 

“Oh my God,” he whispers when his hips are finally flush with David’s ass. “Oh my God, don’t move, don’t speak.” 

David giggles and squeezes Patrick’s hands, doing his best not to make him come. As enticing as that is, he really does want it to last longer than a minute. 

“Laughing during sex? Incorrect,” Patrick breathes, but he’s laughing too, before sobering. He shifts his hips out a bit and gently pushes back in, eyes rolling back in his head. “Been a while.” 

“Too long,” David murmurs, letting go of one of Patrick’s hands so he can reach around and grip his shoulder blades. 

Slowly, they build into an easy rhythm, like the gentle rolling of waves on the shore. They don’t take their eyes off each other and it’s possibly the most intense and intimate sexual experience of David’s life. He’s already physically bare, but in this moment, with Patrick looking into his eyes and slowly, but thoroughly taking him apart with his body, he feels emotionally flayed, too. 

“You’re so good,” he whispers, running his hands up and down Patrick’s sweaty back. “You’re doing so well.” 

Patrick’s arms are starting to shake from the strain of both holding himself up and holding his body back. David hooks his leg higher up and rolls his hips up to meet him. 

“You feel so good,” Patrick says, voice strained. “So, so good.” His thrusts are hard, but slow, hitting David exactly where he needs them to. 

This isn’t just sex. It’s something more and he refuses to name it because, frankly, it sounds ridiculous but he knows what it is and what it’s called and, yes okay, ‘making love’ is remarkably apt given the circumstances. 

The pitch of his moans gets higher and higher and Patrick grunts every time he thrusts. They’re both struggling to keep their eyes open through the pleasure, but finally Patrick hangs his head and groans. 

“Fuck, I’m gonna come, babe,” he grits out, getting a hand between them and wrapping it around David’s cock. 

He cries out and digs his nails into Patrick’s biceps. “I’m with you. Get me there.”

Patrick curses as his hips stutter, and he moans against David’s lips as he mashes a clumsy kiss there. David follows him over a moment, clutching at the back of his neck and letting Patrick swallow his whines as he splatters their chests with come. 

They lay there panting, foreheads pressed together, just for a moment. David’s legs slide off Patrick’s back, hooking instead around the backs of his thighs to keep him there. 

“Wow,” Patrick breathes. 

“Uh huh,” David blurts, carding his fingers through Patrick’s sweaty hair and pressing a kiss to his nose. “Love you,” he whispers. 

“Love you,” Patrick quietly replies, leaning back as if to pull away, but David whines and clutches at him. 

“Wait, wait - just, don’t move yet.”

“Okay, babe.” He settles back down, slowly softening cock still inside David, despite how uncomfortable the condom probably is.  

And in this moment, with Patrick all around him, David realizes he could stay here forever. For someone used to running, it shocks him how not scary that thought is. 

Patrick gets his arms underneath David and hooks his hands over his shoulders, holding him tight and watching him closely. 

“Okay?” he asks again and David nods, swallowing around the lump in his throat. 

“Okay.” 

They stay like that, just staring at one another, until they literally start to stick together and clean up becomes a necessity. 

David grins wickedly and pinches Patrick's ass as he gets up to throw out the condom. "I think it's safe to say we gave Stella a run for her money." 

"Oh my God," Patrick mutters, but he's practically preening. He turns the shower on in the bathroom and David joins him, turning his aching muscles into the spray and allowing Patrick to wash him reverently. 

They stumble back into bed without bothering to put on pajamas - after all, armor isn’t needed with Patrick - and he sneakily notes what time Patrick sets his alarm for so he can set his for an hour earlier. He puts the phone on vibrate and sticks it under his pillow. 

He climbs under the covers, delighting in the way that Patrick is already holding his arm out for David to tuck into his side, like a difficult puzzle piece finally slotting into place. As he traces constellations on Patrick’s chest, he thinks back to a year and one day ago, sitting in the parking lot of the motel and watching Patrick pull away from a kiss that, for the first time in his life, curled his toes. 

 _“Thank you,”_ he had said and, at the time, David had no idea what for. It seemed odd to thank someone for kissing them. But then came, _“Thank you for making that happen for us,"_ and everything made sense.

David never understood just how much that moment meant to Patrick until he lived it himself not an hour ago. 

“Thank you, Patrick,” he murmurs.  

But Patrick doesn’t ask ‘For what?’

David suspects he already knows. 

Instead, he doesn’t say anything, just holds him tighter and presses a kiss to his forehead, pouring everything he can’t find words for into the touch of his lips. 

David eventually sleeps the sleep of the dead. Or maybe the thoroughly fucked. Or perhaps just the unconditionally loved. 

He blinks awake as the phone beneath his head vibrates and he shuts it off before it can wake his softly snoring boyfriend whose face is mashed into a pillow and whose hair is sticking up every which way. It takes every ounce of will power in David’s relatively short supply to pull on clothes and walk away from him. He definitely sneaks a picture before he goes, though. 

He returns ten minutes later with two coffee cups, placing them on the desk and sitting on the side of the bed. Patrick hasn’t moved much, but his arm is outstretched as if searching for David in sleep. His heart pangs as he leans down and presses a kiss to Patrick’s warm cheek. 

“Wake up, honey.” 

Patrick grunts and rolls over, pulling the sheet over his shoulder in an entirely too-adorable way. 

“Honey, up,” he tries again, running his hand through hair that’s just starting to curl.  

“Mmph, you okay?” Patrick groggily asks and David is reminded so much of the night in Toronto when he crawled into his bed, he nearly gasps. Patrick squints an eye towards the window. “Sun’s not even up, babe.” 

David swallows hard, fighting to push those lingering emotions down. “Come on.” 

“But…” Patrick rolls over onto his back and pulls David towards him, letting out the closest thing to a whine David’s ever heard. “You’re never up before the sun.” 

“Yes, I’m well aware,” he says, standing and stripping the sheet from his boyfriend’s naked body. 

“Mean, David,” Patrick groans, but he swings his legs over the side of the bed, humming when David places the cup of coffee in his hand. 

“Don’t spill. You’re naked,” David cautions and Patrick chuckles as he finally gets a good look at his boyfriend. 

“And you’re not.” 

“Nope,” David replies. “Come on. One last walk.” He tosses Patrick’s discarded clothes from the night before at him and watches with interest over his caramel macchiato as he pulls them on. 

“Enjoying the show?” Patrick winks as he disappears into the bathroom to brush his teeth. 

“You know it,” he calls after him. 

They head out a couple of minutes later, and David can tell Patrick wants to ask where they’re going, but as he sleepily rubs at his eyes, he seems to figure he’s about to find out anyway. 

Sure enough, David leads them over to Lincoln Square once more where the Met and the ballet and the philharmonic are all still lit up from the night before. The sky is beginning to lighten from blue to pink as the sun starts to peek over the east side. 

David walks over to the fountain and the wide ledge that circles it, sitting down and patting the spot beside him. Patrick watches him with a sleepy smile for a moment before joining him, sitting not next to him, but sliding in behind him, one leg on either side, and pulling David back to lean against his chest. The square is empty and they sit in silence for a minute, just admiring the view. 

“Did you have a good time?” David asks eventually, even though he’s pretty sure of the answer. 

“The best,” Patrick replies, taking a sip of his coffee and sighing deeply. Contentedly. “This should be a tradition,” he eventually murmurs, pressing a kiss to David’s head.  

“What? Coffee at the crack of dawn? Because I might need more incentive than that.” 

Patrick chuckles and fiddles with the sleeve on his cup with his thumb. “No, this. Time. With you.” 

David feels his face heat, despite the cool air, and nods as he looks away. “We can do another weekend away.” 

Patrick is quiet for a moment, and then David feels more than he hears him take a deep inhale and he knows that whatever he's about to say next is Important.

“David, I’m not sure you realize this, but I want a lifetime of weekends with you.” 

 _Oh,_ he thinks. 

“Oh,” he breathes. 

“Weekdays, too,” Patrick says, voice hitching. “Because I’m greedy.” 

David tilts his head up, meeting Patrick’s eyes. “I’m okay with that.” 

 _“Don’t leave me,”_ he had said to him not 48 hours ago. 

David’s not sure he realized until this very moment that Patrick meant it when he replied, _“Not ever.”_  

He picks up Patrick’s left hand and toys with his fingers, lingering on one in particular, second in from the left. He can see a ring there so clearly, it makes him gasp. 

Patrick must know exactly what he’s thinking because he leans down and his lips ghost across David’s ear. 

“Yes,” he whispers. 

David swallows. “I didn’t ask a question.” He feels Patrick smile against his cheek.

“You didn’t have to.” 

_“You asked. And that was all you had to do.”_

Patrick slides their fingers together and brings them to his lips to press a kiss to David’s knuckles. “It will always be ‘yes.” 

David turns in his arms and nods, because he can’t do much else with the tears currently spilling onto his cheeks. Patrick cups his face in his hands and kisses the coffee from his lips. 

“Okay?” he whispers one last time, and David knows he’s asking about so much more than last night or this weekend or the last eight months. He’s asking about the future and for permission to build a life with his mind, with his heart, with his spreadsheets, that’s _theirs._

David smiles. It’s the easiest answer in the world. 

“Okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- The song the busker plays is Adele's "Water Under the Bridge." Patrick definitely sings it per David's request at the next open mic night.  
> \- Every location mentioned is real: The Empire Hotel, the fountain at Lincoln Square, Fiorello's, the South Street Seaport (and the Pioneer sailboat), Bond 45, Cafe Lalo, the Delta Sky360 Suite at Yankee Stadium, the Central Park Boathouse (and the trails/rock behind it), Tavern on the Green, and of course, Hamilton at the Richard Rodgers Theatre. Come visit.


End file.
